


Double or Nothing

by BabysNotaProp (SuzetteB)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Library, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Asexual Character, Bad Puns, Deaf Character, Demisexual Castiel (Supernatural), Enemies to Lovers, Fisherman Dean, Happy Ending, Human Impala (Supernatural), Librarian Castiel (Supernatural), M/M, Major Character Injury, Openly Bisexual Dean Winchester, Plumber Dean, Romantic Comedy, Sitcom, Skippable Smut Chapters, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-07
Updated: 2020-05-07
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:27:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 30
Words: 106,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24038875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SuzetteB/pseuds/BabysNotaProp
Summary: When Dean moves from Tallahassee to St. Augustine to be close to his pilot school-bound brother, he finds himself neighbors with Sam’s new crush and sharing rent with a stoner mechanic whose only mode of transportation is adonorcycle. As if that’s not enough, the town librarian is drop-dead gorgeous, although exasperating with his stuffy rules and affinity for odd holidays. It doesn’t help that everyone around Dean seems content with their life paths, while he’s stuck in a career he hates. At least his rod and reel are there for him.Transferred to a new plumbing team and dragged to the library’s ASL class by his twitterpated brother, Dean begins to explore his options. Volunteering in his community is a good place to start, but nothing says “community” quite like the library and that’s where *that guy* works.Who does he even think he is, with his antiquated quiet policy, unfairly blue eyes, and God-awful tweed vest? Screw him. But not like that. Not that Dean would mind it, if he could only get past how strict the guy was about his precious books.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester, Charlie Bradbury/Original Female Character(s), Eileen Leahy/Sam Winchester
Comments: 155
Kudos: 141
Collections: Perfect Pair Bang 2020 (Official), The Destiel Fan Survey Favs Collection





	1. The One Where Dean Moves In

**Author's Note:**

> Thank yous are in order, because I could not have pulled this off without the help of my artist, beta, and "all-things-library sensitivity reader."
> 
> To [@castielslittlestbee](https://www.tumblr.com/dashboard/blog/castielslittlestbee) \- I felt the pull to collaborate with you from the very beginning. You saw my vision and deemed it worthy of your art. You breathed life into this story. Thank you so very much!
> 
> To [@CastielsCarma](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CastielsCarma) \- Having a fresh pair of eyes on a work is important in so many ways, some of which I wasn't aware until I started sharing docs with you. I take every suggestion of yours to heart. Thank you for turning my wordy clusterf*cks into something readable.
> 
> To [Emblue_Sparks](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emblue_Sparks) \- The details in this story center around a public service used by many but understood by few. Thank you for helping to make this a Library AU that librarians will enjoy reading.
> 
> ************
> 
> Now then, let's go over what you're about to get yourself into. Those of you who read tags before diving in might have some questions...
> 
> ***Regarding the optional smut***  
> The vast majority of this story reads like a sitcom: relatively family-friendly, canon-typical cussing in dialogue (with higher-rated cussing in narration), and fade-to-black sex scenes. Double or Nothing includes two clearly-marked smut chapters that you may skip with no impact on the story's overall plot. Rating the story Mature is the middle ground between the 28 Teen+ chapters and 2 Explicit ones.  
> If you're a regular reader of mine, however, you're probably already okay with smut ;) Read 'em all per the usual. Enjoy!
> 
> ***Regarding Major Character Injury tag***  
> (Monty Python voice) "I got better!"  
> But seriously, it's not as angsty as it sounds. Without giving away spoilers, the character recovers just fine. I even included a Happy Ending tag in case you were worried.
> 
> ***Human!Impala***  
> In 2018 I wrote a canon-divergent [fic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15926456/) that introduced the world to the way I portrayed Baby as a sentient being. My readers loved her and wanted more. This is her in another universe. Just, for the love of the lord baby Jesus, don't call her "Baby."  
> There is something to be said about the dynamic between her and Dean, but I feel it's largely unexplored by fandom because it's so hard to assign words to it. Hopefully this brings us a little closer to seeing her soul. Having them share rent seemed like a good place to start.
> 
> ***The title***  
> If you search deep in the catacombs of Tumblr, you'll find a prompt about the shenanigans of a pansexual and asexual being roomies called "All or Nothing." I took the liberty of tweaking the title to fit how I interpret Dean, as a bisexual (attracted to genders like and unlike his own).
> 
> Art post [here!](https://castielslittlestbee.tumblr.com/post/617493461085634560/double-or-nothing)
> 
> Thank you for reading, enjoy the ride, and feel free to send me an [ask on Tumblr!](https://deans-jiggly-pudding.tumblr.com/ask) If you're the listening-while-you-read type, I've included music for each chapter. Here's [Changes](https://youtu.be/BPPSu0vaNWA)

“If you make me say ‘pivot,’ I swear to God I’ll drop this sofa on your giant-ass toes, Sam.”

He should have gone with the apartment available on the first floor. But no, _someone_ insisted the third floor reduces chances of noise, robberies, and Jehovah’s Witnesses. However, Dean hadn’t considered the grim reality of lugging large furniture all the way up said stairs. 

“You aren’t angling it right.”

“That’s what she said.”

“Dean,” Sam griped as he repositioned his arms around the sofa. “Don’t set it down yet. We’re almost there.”

The elevator couldn’t have chosen a worse day to malfunction, but it wasn’t like the furniture would have fit, anyway. After an afternoon of trip after trip from moving truck to the third floor, the end of their labor was in sight, as well as their last bit of strength. 

“After this, all that’s left is unpacking every damn thing I’ve ever owned. Awesome.”

“And meeting your roommate.”

“And meeting my roommate.” The echo was laced with fret, and with a few more pained grunts, Dean’s last piece of furniture was through the apartment unit’s front door. Mattress, check. TV, check. Oversized sofa, check. The two brothers collapsed onto the couch and took a moment to breathe. 

Sam scanned what space he could see from his seated position. “So this is it, huh? Your dream home.”

“Not dream home,” Dean corrected, standing up. “Dream view.” He pulled back the sliding door blinds to reveal an expanse of greenery and peaceful lake, as far as the eye could see. “Isn’t she a beauty?”

Sam shook his head, smiling. “I can’t believe you moved to be closer to fish.”

“Excuse you. They’re bass, and they’re worth every extra dollar I owe in rent.”

“It won’t be so bad with two people splitting it.”

Dean glances down at his watch. “Speaking of which… Mystery Sir or Madam should be here anytime now.”

“Sir or madam? You didn’t bother to find that out beforehand?”

Dean shrugged with an indifferent pout. It didn’t matter one way or another to him, as long as they could agree on no keggers, minimal noise if the other was asleep, and no smoking in the apartment. Everything else, he could handle as it came. 

They met through a piece of paper Dean had stapled to a stop sign two months back. Reading “ROOMMATE NEEDED” in Impact font as large as the Word document allowed, the flyer caught the attention of a few curious passers by and his fair share of creepers, but nothing Dean couldn’t handle. 

After weeding through the not-so-serious texters, Dean settled on the one person who could answer his super sneaky screening questions about Led Zeppelin. The secret correspondent knew their classic rock inside and out, had decent credit, and brought their own non-negotiables to the table: no snooping through their stuff and no stealing each other’s food.

Both fair requests, and nothing that Dean couldn’t commit to long-term. Should their arrangement extend, they could make adjustments as necessary. After all, Dean planned on being here for at least two years while his brother did college classes. The nerd couldn’t seem to keep his nose out of books, even after completing a degree in chemical engineering at age 22.

Now at 30, he had succumbed to a quarter-life crisis and insisted on getting a pilot’s license.

As long as his little brother kept his man-made metal death traps the hell away from him, Dean gave zero fucks. Life in Tallahassee was boring, anyway. And his hard-core fishing friends kept talking about their epic catches in St. Augustine. That was his cover story for moving across the state. Both of them knew deep down it was really to give Sam moral support, but like hell if either of them were about to admit it.

“You smell that?” Sam asked with a sniff. 

Dean furrowed his brows and grunted in reply, in no state of mind to form words like “what?” and “no, are you having a stroke?” but giving the air a quick whiff anyway. Sam’s sense of smell was always keener than his anyway, but now it was official: his brother was imagining things.

“I’m serious,” he insisted at Dean’s skeptical glare. “You don’t smell that?”

“What’chu talkin’ ‘bout, Willis?”

Sam sniffed again. “That. You don’t smell that?” When Dean shook his head in reply, Sam rolled his eyes. “I think one of your neighbors might be a stoner.”

“Doesn’t bother me,” he shrugged. “As long as it’s not inside my apartment, my fellows to the north, south, east, and west can get high to their hearts’ desires. Mama didn’t raise no snitch.”

“Do you feel a draft? Is there a window open?”

Begrudgingly, Dean struggled to his feet. “Alright princess, is there a pea under your mattress, too? The leasing office probably left a window open to air the place out. I’ll go close the damn thing.”

Being an apartment, it wasn’t like there were that many rooms to inspect. Besides, he had already been in most of them to either drop off packing boxes, furniture, or both, and he was fairly certain the windows were closed, although admittedly he wasn’t paying that much attention. As he approached the second bedroom his nose began catching onto what Sam had smelled. It was weed alright, but Dean wasn’t even mad; whoever it was had good taste.

Dean pushed open the already slightly ajar door, immediately noticing an open window. As he approached, the person in question came into view. She was sitting on a shingle-roof overhang just under the window, facing away and sitting cross-legged with a rolled cone in hand. 

A creak in the floor alerted her to his presence, and she twisted around to face him. The steady stream of smoke was coming from her alright, as sure as exhaust from a tailpipe, minus the toxic emissions. A smear of what looked like engine soot stained her Monterey Pop Festival t-shirt. It was a scene straight out of 1967.

She gave no indication of unease at him finding her. Her expression was so imperturbable, it seemed like she almost expected it.

“You uh, okay?” Dean asked.

She nodded.

“What are you, um,” he fumbled, still taken slightly aback from finding a random stranger perched on a window ledge outside of his dwelling like some kind of bird. “What are you doing?”

“You said no smoking inside the apartment,” she answered, short but devoid of crass. “I was just trying to be considerate.”

Dean blinked. “You’re…?”

“Your roomie,” she finished.

Leaning out of the window, Dean assessed the general layout of the overhang. It stuck out of the story below at a slight angle, holding little danger for her to accidentally roll off to her death. It must have been a storage unit of some sort for the apartment below, or perhaps the water heater closet.

“How did you get up here?”

“Climbed.” She pointed at the gutter pipe running the height of the building, held in place with bolts just big enough to get a footing on. Every several feet, a laundry exhaust pipe stuck out of the brick, giving more places to put hands and feet on the long climb upward.

Even with the helpful bolts and pipes, it was an impressive feat.

“I was gonna take the stairs, but there was a couch in my way.”

“Ah,” Dean breathed, a little relieved that his ninja of a roommate wasn’t in the habit of climbing walls for kicks. “That might have been me. Dean, by the way. I would shake your hand, but eh, I’m more of a solid ground kinda guy.”

She glanced down, unbothered by the long way down. “Y’know it’s the same height as you’re at now, right? Just without walls.”

“Alright,” he grumbled, leaning back into the safety of the room. That was enough talk of heights for his taste. Anyone would know it was different to have something sturdy on all sides holding one in — not including an airplane, thank you very much.

With one last exhale of her joint, his roommate snuffed out the roach and climbed back in. “Name’s Bee,” she introduced, extending her hand. 

He took it and gave a mannerly shake. “Dean Winchester. What about you? Got a last name? Post-nominal initials?” He shrugged his lips. “Suffix?”

She turned towards her boxes, body language excusing herself from further conversation. “Just call me Bee.” Her tone was cordial, although not excessively so.

His brows furrowed curiously but he had enough manners to refrain from prodding. Her room was mostly empty, with the exception of a self-supported hammock and three large moving boxes. The hammock was a neutral beige — hemp canvas by the look of it — with a tie dye blanket balled up for a pillow. Great. He was living with a friggin’ hippie.

He was about to toe the line on being nosy about her highly classified belongings and ask if she had an actual bed, when the sound of Sam’s voice interrupted him from following through. “Dean, did you get lost? It’s a two bedroom apartment.”

“In here,” he replied, loudly enough to be heard down the hallway. 

Sam poked his head inside, eyes falling to Bee. “Oh hey. You must be the roommate.”

“That’s me,” she acknowledged, slicing a box open with a scraper hook. “You the Sam guy Dean kept yelling at up the staircase?”

Sam huffed a laugh. “One and the same.”

“Sam, this is Bee,” Dean joined in, motioning between them. They gave each other a short wave from across the room before Bee returned to unpacking her stuff and Sam turning his attention to his brother.

“I think I’m gonna head out. I’m starving.”

Dean lit up at the sound of food. “Count me in. Be down in a minute.”

Sam headed out, leaving Dean to handle business matters with his new roommate. She was unfolding a collapsible hamper, but paused from unpacking further when he pulled three keys out of his pocket.

“The gold one is to the breezeway. The silver one is to our unit. The tiny one is to the mailbox.” She took the keys and stuffed them into her own pocket. “Rent is due the first of each month, but there’s a five day grace period.”

“Got it.”

Dean’s phone buzzed in his pocket. Pulling it out, he read the text from Sam that read, **_Elevator is fixed!_ ** He poised his fingers to begin a reply when another message came through almost immediately. **_Nvm, it broke again._ **

Rolling his eyes, he stuck the phone back in his pocket. “Gotta go save my pain in the ass little brother. He got himself stuck in the elevator.”

“I’ll call the fire department,” Bee volunteered, pulling her own phone out of her pocket. 

Dean hummed a reply while leaving, glancing down at his screen as another message from Sam came through: **_The girl who’s stuck in here with me is cute, at least._**

**To Sam:** **_Easy there, tiger._ **

He closed the apartment door behind him to see a small crowd of leasing office personnel gathering, attempting to pry open the elevator door and push the down button. “The guys with the water truck are on their way,” he informed them. “I thought this thing was closed off?”

“It was, but we had someone come in to service it,” a short-haired woman in a pantsuit explained apologetically. “He gave it a test run and it seemed fine. We are sorry for the inconvenience.”

Dean shrugged indifferently. The thought of his eating time being delayed was more concerning than having an unreliable elevator. Heaven knew he needed the exercise. At thirty five, his metabolism wasn’t what it used to be.

Knowing this was a low priority for the fire department, he halfway considered riding his bike — shut up, they’re eco-friendly — to the gas station at the corner and bringing back the most filling thing he could balance between handlebars. He, four people from the leasing office, and the maintenance man stood in silence for several minutes before another buzz in his pocket had him reading a new message.

**From Sam:** **_After we eat, I wanna go to the library._ **

**To Sam:** **_What’s the problem? Your pilot books not quenching your thirst for knowledge?_ **

**From Sam:** **_I’ll explain later._ **

**From Sam:** **_Actually, could we order a pizza instead of going out? I don’t want to get to the library too late._ **

Dean peered aggressively at the phone screen, at a loss for what could possibly be so fascinating that Sam would forgo Thai or authentic Jamaican, choosing delivery for the sake of a trip to the library as soon as his feet hit solid ground again. Weirdo. Regardless, he yielded to his brother’s wish and ordered a pizza online.

The answer came after the fire department showed up. Dean tried not to stare, but it was oh, so difficult to not notice the good looking men and women in uniform, working hard to set his brother and mystery girl free. They pulled the doors apart, revealing the car about two thirds of the way below floor level, but with just enough room for both people to crawl out. Dean could see Sam clearly, plus the top of the head of whoever was with him.

They pulled the lady out first. She had long brown hair, brown eyes, and stood at least a foot shorter than Sam. He climbed out a few seconds later, looking straight at her to say something that she apparently thought was hilarious. Dean raised a brow at how friendly he was with her.

_Dammit Sammy, tone it down, or you’re gonna scare her off,_ he thought of texting him. Within moments Sam, the girl, maintenance, and the office employees had all expressed their thanks, and all went their separate ways. Dean leaned against the door, patiently waiting for Sam and his new friend to get out of each other’s orbit long enough to realize he was there.

“Eileen, this is my brother, Dean,” Sam introduced once they were both within a few feet of Dean’s apartment. “Dean, this is Eileen.”

“Hi,” Dean piped up. Eileen made the first move to shake his hand, and he obliged. 

“Pleased to meet you,” she enunciated with strong vowels.

“Eileen is your neighbor,” Sam explained as she watched his mouth move.

“Right there,” she said, pointing to the door across from Dean’s. “I noticed you moving in today. Sam said you used to live in Tallahassee. Sorry about that.”

Dean laughed at her jab at the state capital. It was no less than the city deserved. This chick was funny… and nice. No wonder Sam liked her.

“Anyway, I better be going,” she excused herself. “My work called me in early and I was just on my way down. I guess I’m showing up at my regular time after all.”

“I guess I’ll see you around,” Sam said with a hopeful tone that left the final word to her.

“Sure hope so.” Eileen gave him one more spirited smile before heading down the staircase.

The whole thing was objectively sickening to watch, but Dean couldn’t look away. Sam all rosy-cheeked and smiley about a girl he just met was like something straight out of a cheesy movie. It was a wild happenstance, on the verge of being too good to be true. Dean wouldn’t allow himself to think about it too much; as of now, he was the sole human keeping Sam’s feet on solid ground.

“Dean, she’s… she’s…”

“Alright, alright. Settle down, Romeo.”

“I need to learn sign language. Like, right now.”

“After we eat. Extra cheese before between-her-sheets.”

“Dean.”

“Sausage on a pizza before your-sausage-in-her —”

“And that’s enough of that,” Sam bucked in. “I’m serious. I’m going to learn sign language so I can talk to her. She reads lips, but —”

Dean chuckled at all the jokes he could make about lips.

“Don’t you dare.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Dean insisted, pulling out his phone to track the whereabouts of their delivery. “Not when there’s incoming pizza in three… two… one…”

The buoyant shuffle of feet working their way upstairs eased into earshot. Online ordering was magical: less human interaction than ordering on the phone, more coupon codes, and the time of delivery was like clockwork. The delivery boy was a hair shorter than average, lanky, his polo matching the delivery box. His nametag read “Alfie.”

“Half meat lovers with extra bacon, half supreme?” he asked after glancing at the apartment number.

Dean traded him the box for a twenty. “That’s me, keep the change.”

“Wow, thanks,” Alfie said with a grateful smile.

Although there was no official place to eat their food, Dean had the foresight to stick a six pack in the fridge that morning, before lugging the first piece of furniture up the stairs. It proved to be a genius decision, as he hadn’t unpacked so much as a plastic cup yet, or installed the water filter on the sink.

“Bee, come have some pizza,” he hollered as he plopped the box onto the kitchen bar. It was a small space consisting of two countertops, one adjacent to the sink and one on the opposite wall, adjacent to the oven. The microwave sat above the stove, and the fridge next to it. If there was one thing apartment complexes had mastered, it was making the most of livable space. Compact as it was, storage space was plentiful for the meager amount of plates, silverware, and pans Dean had brought from Tallahassee.

Bee emerged from her room, following her nose to the kitchen. She chose from the meat lovers side — Dean had chosen a sensible roommate after all — and sat up on the counter opposite of the boys.

“Want a beer?” Dean asked.

“Nah,” she dragged out. “I try not to mix my alcohol and weed.”

“Suit yourself,” he muttered with a shrug before turning his attention to Sam. “You ask Elevator Girl for her number, or…?”

Sam rolled his eyes, pausing from the bite of supreme he was mere inches from indulging. “I don’t know, Dean. Did you ask any of the firefighters for their numbers?”

Dean looked everywhere but at his brother and roommate, heat rising into his neck. Was he really that obvious?

“They’re not a calendar, you know. It’s rude to stare.”

Alrighty then, he really _was_ that obvious.

“And?” Dean defended. “Dudes are hot. Chicks are hot. Why is everyone so hot?” He paused to bite aggressively into his slice, buying himself more time to come up with something justifying. He came up empty, and got desperate. “Ain’t that right, Bee?”

“Only hot thing in this whole complex is this pizza,” she deadpanned after swallowing a bite.

Sam snorted a laugh, holding his fist against his full mouth. Realizing he was alone in his sentiment, Dean tore the cap off his beer with his bare hands and took a long guzzle. “Okay, fine. So I like at least double the types of ass Mr. Hetero over here does. That’s twice as much for me to choose from, right?”

“Sure,” Sam appeased.

“And Bee over here likes… pizza. That leaves me with at least two times as many people.”

“Two times zero is still nothing,” Bee stated, fighting an amused smile behind stuffed cheeks.

“That sounds more like his average luck with the gentlemen and ladies,” Sam mumbled quickly, coughing it away, but not before Dean caught the snide remark and poked him in the side.

“Watch it,” he retorted. “Even a blind squirrel finds a nut once in a while.”

“You’re just mad that I'm learning a new language for the chance at love.”

“Wuv,” Dean twanged with two cheeks round with pizza. “Twu wuv, wiw fowwow you fowevah and evah.”

Mad wasn’t the word Dean would use. Intrigued? Envy was such a strong word. He couldn’t deny the dry spell Sam had so elegantly brought up, and maybe it was just his downstairs brain talking, but sure, he wouldn’t mind meeting someone. But at thirty five, the dating pool was just as awful as the memes suggested.

With their stomachs full, Sam and Dean made their way to the library in Sam’s black Dodge Charger. Dean would never stop referring to it as a Douchemobile in his mind, but he couldn’t open his big mouth when it was the only vehicle taking him anywhere. Living in the bustle of Tallahassee taught him how to get by on Uber and his bike, and since seeing the difference in cost, he couldn’t see the point in investing in a car again. 

As he made his way through the aisles, the reverent quietness of libraries gradually came back to him. It started as they walked through the automatic doors, with Dean on the last bullet point of a monologue against roundabouts. The nasty looks from the front desk people were enough to drop his volume several decibels.

Then he and Sam went their separate ways, his brother heading straight to the computers while Dean opted to wander around. He told himself it was to get a head start looking for ASL stuff, but with no help from the catalog and a rusty knowledge of the Dewey decimal system, he was as good as lost. From the looks of it, he was currently in fiction, with last names starting in TOL.

He clumped down the aisle in his loud boots, earning another disdainful glare from a lady pushing a cart full of books. Her own gait was quiet as a mouse, the only sound coming from the wheels rubbing against the short carpet. Even though she was just passing by, Dean stepped lightly the rest of the way towards The Hobbit and Lord of the Rings.

Giving a barely audible awed whistle, he took Return of the King in hand, thumbing through its many pages. The series was required reading in school, although he shamelessly admitted to using Cliff Notes for the essay. Every nerd friend he never knew he had came out of the woodwork once the movies were released, but all he ever saw were the theatrical versions. Apparently he had been “deprived” of the extended versions, but he was okay with that.

Lowering the thick book from his immediate line of sight, he raised his head to the empty space it occupied, only to see someone looking directly at him from the other side of the shelf. He barely had time to register it before the mystery person blinked downward and scooted out of sight, taking with them the bluest pair of eyes Dean had ever seen in his life.

Eyes so blue, he felt robbed as soon as they disappeared. He didn’t even know eyes could be that shade of blue; there they were, but just as quickly, there they went. It was unfair. He couldn’t even get a good look at them. All he knew was _blue._ A flash of blue so intense, it was like a cruel teaser; a deep well not meant for just one shallow glance. Those eyes were meant to be lost in, to drown in.

And he had every intention of finding them again.


	2. The One With the Shushy Librarian

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam drags Dean to the library for books on sign language, but the only thing Dean's putting a trace on is a pair of stupidly blue eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen to [Good Old Fashioned Lover Boy](https://youtu.be/R44FQ2BN2PA)

“Psst,” Dean hissed through the shelf spacing. He had no witty one-liner prepared, no plan for what he would say to the blue-eyed stranger in the event that they actually listened to him. “Hey, hey you.”

The blue eyes did not return. Stuck up asshole, ignoring him even with his carefully crafted Library Whisper. After all the shushing, Dean had finally learned how to be quiet, and this was what he got in return. 

With a slight grumble, he moved in the direction he was fairly certain the eyes disappeared. He peeped into the next aisle, only to see no one. Keeping off the noisy heels of his feet, he walked to the aisle after that. It was empty. Whoever this was could move, both quickly and quietly.

Dean cleared his throat, hoping to alert any nearby employees of his whereabouts. Perhaps it would even make him sound like he needed help, causing the blue-eyed stranger to take pity on him and offer their assistance. They did see him perusing the shelves, after all. It wasn’t like he was just standing there staring through a hole in the shelves, like a psychopath.

Reverting back to heavy steps, Dean inspected the next two aisles down, to no avail. He exhaled emphatically, earning no points in the quiet game the library employees had conditioned him to play during his brief stay. In one last desperate attempt at attention, he growled out a loud “ahem”.

“Shh!” hissed a voice directly behind him.

Dean spun around, eyes widening as he took in the sight of the exact person he had been searching for. His curious stare was met with blue — so, _so_ much blue — framed by hair the darkest shade of brown without crossing over into midnight black. The man had scruff for days, although not from lack of shaving; he was blessed with a perpetual five o’clock shadow, which Dean had to try very hard not to imagine scraping across the skin of his neck and inner thighs.

His eyes fell for just a second, but long enough to get an eye full of the blue-eyed man’s clothes. The first thing Dean noticed was how beautifully his white dress shirt contrasted with his tan skin, the second thing being the rolled up sleeves showing off his forearms. He wore dark cuffed jeans, ankle-length lace-up boots, and a God-awful tweed vest.

_Ugh, why the vest?_

“April 3rd is Tweed Day,” the handsome stranger spoke softly.

Although taken aback by the man’s intuition, Dean never was able to keep his facial expressions in check, so his bewilderment was doubtless. His brows scrunched even tighter at the brief explanation, as if a holiday around tweed justified the need to celebrate it by wearing something so aesthetically offensive.

The next thing Dean noticed was the rainbow bow tie around the man’s collar, and his heart leaped into his throat in excitement. _He’s gay, aw hell yes,_ he thought, one corner of his mouth quirking up. _He’s gay, he’s gay, he’s gay, thank you lord baby Jesus, he’s g—_

“It’s also Find a Rainbow Day,” Blue Eyes added quickly. “There are prisms at the display up front.”

Dean blinked. “What?”

The man pressed a finger to his mouth. Dean mimicked the motion, looking around himself nervously when he realized just how loud he had been. In the seconds following, the only sounds included someone sniffing, a page turning, and a far away printer warming up. He rigidly turned back to face the man, taking great care of even the sound of his breath, lest he be scolded again.

The next thing he noticed was three books cradled under the stranger’s arm, most likely from the row of books he picked from when they laid eyes on each other for the first time. As he looked into those ocean blue eyes again his heart began to sink. Did the Find a Rainbow Day thingy mean he wasn’t into dudes after all? 

Dean began to panic. He hadn’t even thought about what to say once he caught up to the blue-eyed person. And now he was standing here, making assumptions based on a pair of gorgeous eyes and a bow tie, potentially getting ready to be banned from the library based on whatever happened next. 

_C’mon, there’s no way he bought the thing just for today,_ he warred with himself. _On the other hand, it looks like he bought the tweed vest just for today, so who knows. But why would someone just screw around in rainbow shit if they weren’t at least okay with gay? The only other people wearing rainbows are Noah’s Ark enthusiasts, and the two groups aren’t exactly known for overlapping…_

“Do you need something?” Blue Eyes whispered hurriedly as he adjusted his load of books.

“I uh… uhm,” Dean stammered, rubbing his chin fretfully before shoving his hand in his pocket. 

_Friggin’ say something, dumb ass._

“You were by Tolkien a minute ago. I wasn’t sure if you wanted any further fantasy recommendations.”

Dean’s eyes narrowed for the split-second it took for the man to say _fantasy,_ because oh, he could think of a few of those. But it was only now that he was honed in on a particular word that he noticed just how deep this man’s voice was, even if it was hushed almost to the point of silence. That brought him to the last thing he noticed: this wasn’t just some random fella roaming the aisles.

“You’re… you’re a librarian?” Dean whispered.

A sharp puff of air blew out of the man’s nose, accompanied by a teeny tiny smile. “I am the head librarian, yes. Apologies. I thought that was fairly obvious by now.”

Dean blinked again. _A smart ass one, too._

“Actually, I am looking for something. Well, my brother is, anyway.”

The man’s expression eased into one more keen, as if shifting in realization that Dean actually was a patron in need of assistance. “Oh?”

“He wants to learn sign language.” Dean paused to wet his bottom lip, and watched in fascination as the blue eyes before him followed the motion of his tongue. _A-ha,_ he thought triumphantly. _Straight as a slinky._ “Y’got anything like that, Giles?”

“That’s not my name.”

“Come on, man. Rupert Giles from Buffy. Always chillin’ in the school library.”

“I have not personally watched that series,” the librarian confessed, “although I recall someone checking out some of the seasons on DVD.” He looked down in thought. “Those were supposed to be returned this week.”

“Focus, dude.”

“Yes, sorry. Sign language. Right this way.”

The librarian led him all the way to nonfiction, where the two found Sam on the floor with a spread of sign language books all around him. It was Dean’s shuffling pants, not the stranger’s practiced strides, that alerted Sam to their presence. He looked up from his books just quickly enough to catch Dean giving the librarian’s ass one last glance.

In his defense, it was a mighty fine ass.

“Yahtzee,” Dean rasped. “Looks like he beat us to it.”

The librarian looked briefly at Dean in acknowledgement before turning back to face Sam. “I trust you found what you were looking for.”

Politely glancing up, Sam breathed out a “Yeah, thanks” before dropping his head once more to study the book in his lap. His fingers remained poised in whatever position they were in on the last sign he practiced.

_This nerd,_ Dean pondered. _Cramming before we head back, just in case he sees her again tonight. He’s got it bad._

“Catalog saves the day again,” the librarian quipped in Dean’s direction before twisting around to head off.

“Wait,” Dean pleaded with a bit too much volume.

The man paused in place to give a silent exhale before rotating back around to face Dean. The two looked at each other wordlessly for longer than perfect strangers justifiably should, and the more Dean lingered, the fewer good pick up lines he remembered. Those blue eyes sucked the wittiness right out of him, and that was simply unacceptable.

“Yes?” he prodded.

Dean pursed his lips, not a word coming to mind but attempting to buy as much time as possible. He glanced down at the books tucked under the librarian’s arm. “What are you doing… with… those?” He nodded at them.

The man’s gaze slid down to the books in question, then back up to Dean. His expression was unreadable, as was his tone. “Weeding.”

“What… What’s that mean?”

“It means they haven’t been checked out in at least six months.”

_I know the feeling._ “That’s… sad.”

The librarian narrowed his eyes at him. “Only if you’re a fan of Ayn Rand.”

“I have no idea who that is.”

“Then it’s not sad.”

“Psst,” someone whirred just out of Dean’s line of sight. A young lady pushing a cart of books approached the blue-eyed man, maintaining that perfect quietness he had apparently instilled in everyone. _Freak._ “Should I just finish the rest tomorrow, or…?”

“Yes, thank you Jane,” he replied.

Dean watched her push the cart towards the front. Determined as he was to keep talking to the mysterious but handsome librarian, he was grasping for straws at this point. This guy was not making it easy to hit on him.

“Who was that?” Dean blurted.

“A page.”

The job title flew right over Dean’s head, but he smirked. “Any relation to Jimmy?”

The man’s eyes darted about, as if he was truly contemplating it.

“Dude, I’m joking. Jimmy Page?”

“I don’t know who that is.”

Dean’s brow shot up. “Now _that’s_ sad.”

The man looked downright affronted at Dean’s clapback. He gave him an intense up-and-down, which intimidated Dean more than he anticipated. It made him feel exposed, like he had walked out of the apartment with his fly open, or forgotten to put pants on at all.

“Do you need any further assistance?”

With a thousand naughty thoughts swirling around in his head and half a dozen caught somewhere between his throat and lips, Dean shook his head.

The librarian squared his shoulders. “We close in ten minutes. Please take your final selections to the circulation desk.”

And just like that, he was gone. As quickly and quietly as the first time he escaped Dean’s sight. Within the second it was just him and Sam in the middle of an aisle, surrounded by books and a clock on the wall that steadily ticked toward closing time.

Being new to the area, Sam signed up for a new library card. Dean got one too, just for shits and giggles. Not that he would ever willingly show his face here again. Not with that stupidly gorgeous librarian and his stupid eyes and ugly ass tweed vest. Maybe he would visit other libraries in the county. Yeah, that was it. The one on the other side of town was probably nice.

And void of one ridiculously good-looking, book-weeding, rainbow-wearing asshole.

There really were prisms at the front display, Dean discovered, along with a myriad of other rainbow-inspired items. The Wizard of Oz on DVD, books on the visible light spectrum, and rainbow coloring pages filled in by fifty different kids and in fifty different ways. One had an illegible name and used only shades of pink and red. Another kept repeating the rainbow colors twice on each side, outside of the lines. Another left the rainbow blank, but wrote his name in rainbow colors.

“Screw it,” Dean puffed halfway through the door, turning tail to head right back where he and Sam came from. He didn’t wait around for his brother’s inevitable questioning. There was no time. It was 8:59pm and he didn’t want the guy any more pissed at him than he already probably was. He just needed his name.

He was behind the circulation desk, about to disappear into a door where Dean could only suppose he was taking the books under his arm. The man spotted Dean and froze with one hand on the door, visibly considering his options between stepping back out or making a mad dash for the back room.

“Hey,” Dean said, a tad more comfortably tonal since the place was basically closed anyway. And if the man’s eyes widened marginally after hearing Dean’s real voice for the first time, well, Dean was going to act like it didn’t happen. “I just feel like I should’a — Um.”

The librarian stepped away from the door, at first hesitant but increasingly at ease as he stepped toward Dean. Soon the only thing that separated them was the circulation desk, with Dean pressed against one side and Cas resting his hands on the other. His eyes searched Dean’s face, soulful and deep, and for a moment, the reason behind Dean’s return was lost on him.

“I’m new in town,” he gushed, his thoughts coming back to him. “My brother is in pilot school and I moved here from Tallahassee to be close to him. Don’t tell him, though. He thinks it’s because I wanted a better fishing spot.” _Stop rambling, Winchester._ “All that to say, I’m gonna be sticking around for a while. So I thought to myself, Self, you should plug into your local community. Self, you oughta make an effort to get to know people in your —”

“Castiel.”

Dean all but choked. “W-what?”

The librarian raised an eyebrow. “You were introducing yourself, correct?”

“Uh huh.”

The corner of Castiel’s mouth looked oh, so close to turning up. But what smile he kept down on his mouth showed in his eyes. They sparkled with something exciting, something that made Dean’s blood hot and nethers twitch. Or maybe it was the incandescent lighting gradually being switched off. At this point, it was anyone’s guess.

“Since you’ll be remaining in the area for the duration of your brother’s education, in addition to your avid love for reading, I will be seeing you again soon, mister…?”

“Dean,” he gulped. Oh God. Should he shake his hand? Nod? Salute? Bow? Curtsy? Damn, introductions were hard.

“Dean,” Castiel said back to him. “Welcome to St. Augustine.”

“Uh, thanks,” he flailed clumsily, his feet slipping out from under him before he could get a full step in toward the door. He caught himself and power-walked the rest of the way, the time showing 9:01pm and a handful of employees counting down the seconds before he and Sam took their final steps out of the building.

* * *

“He’s an asshole.”

“Still? It’s been a whole five minutes since you reminded me.”

Bee was an odd little bird, but she was a good listener. Nobody ever wanted to listen to drunk Dean, as his combination of unfiltered and repetitive was typically enough to drive anyone up the wall. Not Bee. But maybe the fact that she was stoned as hell gave her a little extra patience in that department.

“He was an asshole when we met and he was an asshole when I left. It’s his full time gig.”

“What’s the librarian gig, then?”

“That’s his part time job.”

Bee laughed from her spot on the floor, leaned against the couch. “Head librarian isn’t a part time job, Mr. ‘Dubs.”

Dean took another swig of beer while sprawled out on the couch. He only had one of the damn things with his pizza and Sam took off as soon as the brokenhearted dweeb realized his lady was still at work. That left Dean with five beers, and he was on the last one.

“I hate him.”

“Sure ya do.”

“I mean it. I am never going to that library again. I’ll ride my bicycle all the way to Anastasia Island before I show my face to that jackass-dick-hole.”

Bee snorted. “You ride a bicycle?”

“Yeah, and? What do you drive?”

“A motorcycle.”

Dean grunted. “You mean a _donor_ -cycle?”

“Watch it. I’m the only one listening to your angsty ass right now.”

“What do you usually do when you’re high?”

“Finger paint with the blood of my enemies. What do you usually do when you’re drunk?”

“Watch Doctor Sexy with a bottle of lotion and — Hey, wait. With the blood of your _what?”_

“I’m hungry. Are you hungry?”

Dean rubbed his tummy, which gave a gnarly growl at the mention of food. “Damn, I think so. What’s around?”

Squinting with her face far too close to the screen, Bee scrolled on her phone for a few long, silent seconds. “There’s a pastry shop on the corner, man.”

“Do you think they have savory pastries? Like ham and cheese?”

“Hold up, I’m looking through the menu. Wait, they do have ham and cheese!”

Shooting his fists into the air victoriously, Dean whooped several decibels too loud for apartment living. “It’s pastry time, ass hats!”

Bee stumbled to her feet. “Hell yeah, pastries!”

“We’re on the fast road to flavortown!”

The two exited and re-entered their abode a grand total of three times before actually leaving. The first time, they both forgot to put on shoes. The second time, they forgot their keys. The third time, they tried someone else’s door before realizing it was not, in fact, the door to the building.

At least the pastry shop was easy to find. They barrelled in like bulls in a china shop, setting off the delicate bell hanging in the door and frightening every customer inside with their wails of excitement. After standing in one place and peering at the menu for a grand total of ten minutes, the two realized the line had been going around them the entire time. 

After getting back in line and doing better about following the pace, the cashier eventually called them up and asked for their order. Dean ordered four ham and cheese pastries and paid, then stepped aside for Bee. Instead of stepping up, she stood there with an excessive smile and her hands smushed against her cheeks. 

“Bee, whatareyoudoing?” he slurred.

“My face is prickling.”

“Your face is hungry. Order your pastry.”

“Mr. ‘Dubs,” she said as she stepped forward, leaning against the counter. “If I smile big enough, my face will stop prickling.”

Rolling his eyes, he turned his attention to the cashier. “Whatever thing on your menu stoners usually get? Yeah, she wants two of those.”

“Got it,” the teenager replied, fighting back either a laugh or a cry of fear, and it was hard to tell which.

Bee pulled a ten dollar bill from her pocket and inspected it with utmost devotion. Instead of handing it over she started chuckling, so Dean swiped it from her hand and gave it to the cashier. Now that the hardest part was out of the way, they could take their freshly warmed food to a booth and enjoy the fruit of their labor.

The first bite of pastry was divine. Dean had never tasted anything so perfect. After the day he just had, he deserved something good in his life. The rush of endorphins put him in a go-getter frame of mind. This night didn’t have to stop being awesome. He could keep it going. All he needed to do was scour the pastry shop for a willing participant, high tail it back to the apartment, and keep the party going.

“I’m gonna eat my sorrows,” Dean stated decidedly. “And then I’m bury my manhood in somebody’s —”

“Shh,” Bee shushed, not even a little softer than he spoke. “You’re being loud.”

“I’m gonna lie with someone — in the biblical sense — until I can’t even remember the name ‘Castiel.’ By the way, who names their kid that? Why would you do that to another human?”

“I’m named after an insect.”

“Oh dude,” Dean whispered, which wasn’t actually a whisper at all. It was just a very breathy mumble. “Check her out.”

Bee looked to where he was pointing, in the booth directly behind hers, to spot a woman sitting alone and making every attempt to ignore the giant clusterfuck that was happening right in front of her. Turning back around, Bee began to shake her head in an effort to deter Dean, but caught sight of a cute girl in the booth directly behind his.

Although bloodshot, her line of sight was obvious, and Dean craned his neck to sneak a peek. He turned back to face Bee with a mischievous grin plastered on his face. “Go get ‘em, tiger.” 

“Yeah, yeah. Can’t say the same for you.”

“Pssh,” Dean sputtered, sending spit across the table. “What’s it to ya?”

“You’re drunk.”

“You’re high.”

“I’m not looking to get in anyone’s pants, Mr. ‘Dubs. I’m not interested. I’d rather sit with her, all snuggled up watching a Mission Impossible marathon and rub our little noses together.”

“And I respect that,” Dean said with one index finger wagging at Bee. “But I really wanna rub my nose between her —”

“Nope, I’m out,” Bee interrupted, sliding out of the booth. “See you tomorrow. If you wake me up I’ll barge in playing ‘Oh Canada’ on the tuba.”

“‘Oh Canada’ is the sexiest song,” Dean bellowed, even though she had only walked two feet. He stood up from the booth and made his way over to the one with his lady in waiting. “You’ll be doing me a favor!” With a clumsy waggle of his brows, he sat down across from the lone woman, turning all his attention to her. “Hey there. You’re really pretty. Do you wanna have sex?”

Two booths over, Bee plopped down to face the unsuspecting lady that had caught her eye. “Hey there. You’re really pretty. Do you wanna have half of my pastry?”

No sooner had both of them settled by their respective prospects, than the local law enforcement decided to pay the pastry shop a visit. Dean rose to his feet, hoping his strides could pass as sober-looking, and leaned down to whisper — an honest to God whisper that time — to Bee, “Five-Oh. Mission abort.”

“Dammit,” she sighed, pushing herself to her feet.

It was sneaky business, acting casual about leaving an establishment mere moments after the cops arrived, but considering the circumstances their altered minds were under, they did alright. The police didn’t bat an eye as they walked by, giving polite smiles on their way out. Now that they were outside in the dark, it was nearly impossible for anyone inside to see them with the bright lights putting a glare on the window glass.

Right before reaching the side of the building, the sight of someone approaching an officer caught Bee’s attention. It was the woman Dean was trying to hit on, using a hand motion to indicate a height that was suspiciously identical to his, then pointing towards the door. Bee shoved him the rest of the way out from in front of the glass.

“Run,” she ordered, wasting no time heading for their apartment building.

Dean didn’t question her. He didn’t hesitate, make sarcastic comments, or laugh it off. He could hear the severity in her voice, and he ran. Not stopping once inside, they rushed up the stairs, wheezing by the end and fighting against their own lagging brains. Dean locked their unit door behind them, slouching against it in relief. They had made it. They were okay.

They were never going to be able to show their faces at the corner pastry shop again.


	3. The One With Buffalo Wings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After throwing in a line to clear his mind, Dean begins to reconsider his career path.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen to [9 to 5](https://youtu.be/UbxUSsFXYo4)

With Dean’s job transfer in full effect as of Monday, he had the weekend to hide away from the world. The lake was calling him. He had even bought a brand new rod and reel to use at his new place. After hundreds of hours in online forums and fish maps, he was ready to put his research to the test.

The lake by the apartment was as plentiful as it was gorgeous. He reclined in the fold-up lawn chair he bought just for fishing, casting a grub into a spot he hadn’t tried yet. So far he had caught two bass and one crappie, with lots of nibbles in between. Catch and release, of course. Even if he wanted to take one home, he didn’t have a knife big enough to get the job done right.

He spent all day Saturday and most of Sunday by that lake, nourished only with granola bars, jerky sticks, and water bottles. By the end he was sunburnt and lacking proper nutrition, but happy. His five beers on Friday weren’t even enough for a hangover, so he didn’t have to waste any time regretting how he chose to forget about Castiel.

After setting down his fishing gear in his room, Dean showered, wincing at the warm water hitting his sunburned skin. He scrubbed off the earthy, fishy smell, picked at the dirt under his nails, and hummed the only two lines of Children of the Grave he could remember.

In no frame of mind to unpack the TV, he collapsed onto the couch in jersey shorts and a t-shirt with his tablet, hopeful to catch a game. If the app didn’t offer the channel he was going to high tail it to Buffalo Wild Wings. An entire meal, beer, and tip was worth it to not have to go through the trouble of unpacking a television.

His app had the channel, thank goodness, and he slumped into the cushions, comfortably swallowed by the softness of his beloved couch. His body was screaming for real food, but two solid days in the sun had exhausted him, and he found himself nodding off before the first commercial break.

The door opening startled him awake, and when he clutched onto his tablet and faced the noise, he was met with the sight of Bee in a black Chevrolet shirt, drenched in automotive grease, with a pair of work gloves in one hand. He squinted as she closed the door behind her. 

“You’re a mechanic?” he mumbled, his throat still coated with sleep.

She toed off her work boots. “Are you shocked?”

Dean sat up, smacking his mouth until the awful taste of his own breath waned. “I was just expecting something else, like, I dunno. A pot dealer or assassin.”

“Assassin?” she guffawed. 

“You’re the one who climbed three stories up a brick wall. And that joke about finger-painting with the blood of your enemies.”

“I can’t believe you remember that.”

“I don’t remember much from that night,” he admitted. “But that, yes.”

“The only thing you need to remember is that the pastry shop on the corner is off limits.” Stuffing her gloves in a back pocket, Bee began to make her way towards the hallway bathroom. She grimaced briefly, putting her hand to her lower back. “What about your job?”

“It’s nothing I wanna do forever.”

“What? Like plumbing or something?”

Dean glanced up. “Yeah, actually.”

Bee’s demeanor faltered. “Wait, you’re serious?”

“It’s not nearly as exciting as pornos have led me to believe. It’s a crap job, sometimes literally, but it pays the bills.”

“Well,” Bee interjected, “half of them.”

Dean tilted his head in her direction, raising his brows. “Much like yours.”

“Touché.”

She walked the rest of the way to the bathroom, leaving Dean alone with his tablet again. He glanced at the time at the top of the screen. It was 7:34 pm. The night was young. He could totally justify chicken wings and a beer. The game had barely started. Of course, there were other means of entertainment.

He could always go to the library.

Nope. Out of the question. There was no food at the library. There were no big screens and seasonal IPAs on tap. There was free wifi, yes, but he couldn’t even cheer if his team made a winning shot without being shushed into next week.

Plus,  _ he  _ was there.

No telling what ridiculous getup he was in today. Did he dress up like a shark during Shark Week? What about dolphin week? Was there such a thing? Surely there was a whale week. Too bad he wouldn’t get the Led Zeppelin reference if Dean brought up Moby Dick, the uncultured swine.

Nope, he was going nowhere near Castiel, all three syllables of him. He didn’t even look like a Castiel. He looked more like a James or Steve, but not…  _ that.  _ Maybe a nickname would do him well. Dean was always good with nicknames. Asshat McDickFace? Yeah, that was it. Perfect.

“Screw it,” he grumbled, rolling ungracefully off the couch. “It’s gonna be buffalo wings tonight, after all.”

* * *

Dean cut himself off at beer #2, being the well-adjusted adult he was. He allowed the game on the screen behind his brother to distract him whenever the conversation caused a certain someone’s name to echo in his mind. So far, the conversation had taken minimal turns towards the library, as Sam was far too engrossed in discussing things like school, sign language, and Eileen.

“How does it feel to be the oldest one getting student housing?”

“I’m not,” Sam answered, longsuffering to the age jab but a little uptight. “A lot of them have been pilots for years, coming back to take certain classes and sharpen their skills.”

Pulling the last wing through his teeth, Dean smirked and gave Sam a suspectful look. “You’re stuck with an old guy on Viagra, aren’t you?"

Sam let out a long, irritated sigh. “So much Viagra.”

Dean laughed, which turned to choking on his food. He coughed, giving his chest a punch, and recovered, but didn’t stop smiling. “How long is he sticking around?”

“Hopefully just until the second week of May. His schedule is way more normal than mine.”

“I’ll say, mister starting-pilot-school-in-the-middle-of-spring.” The classes his brother had signed for were anything but conventional, beginning mid-spring and stretching into late fall. But Dean wasn’t going to let the opportunity slide to remind him of how weird of a schedule it was.

“What about you?” Sam prompted. “Ready to start work?”

Dean wiped his hands on yet another wet wipe in an effort to mask his unenthusiastically slumping shoulders. “Another day, another dollar.”

“At least the company was able to transfer you.”

“Yeah. I guess.”

Sam didn’t reply to that, instead thanking the server when she made her rounds to refill his iced tea and offer Dean another beer. Dean politely declined, but requested a glass of water. For a few moments the two ignored each other in favor of watching the many screens around them. It was a perk of going to a place like this. At any given moment, ignoring the person in front of you was optional, even expected.

“How did you decide to start doing something else?” Dean asked after his team made a score. “You just wake up one day and say, ‘Forget this. I’m going back to school’?”

Sam pressed his lips into a fine line, looking off to think and nod. “Pretty much. I realized my career wasn’t fulfilling, and I decided I didn’t want to feel like that anymore.”

“And fulfilling to you is, what exactly? Driving an eight hundred thousand pound sky torpedo full of people putting their trust in you?”

“I mean, yeah.” Sam shrugged. “I really think so. Job fulfillment looks different for everyone. Otherwise we’d all be doing the same thing. You just gotta find what resonates with you.”

“Well, clearing poop out of people’s pipes ain’t it,” Dean confessed. The server dropped off their drinks, and Dean took a sip of his water. “I knew plenty of guys in Tallahassee who didn’t feel the same way. My old buddy, Benny, he loves it. That’s fine, no hard feelings. I just… I dunno, I kinda hate it.”

“Do something else, then.”

Dean had to think on the words, making sure he didn’t hear Sam wrong. “What?”

“Look for a new job. You’ve got loads of transferable skills.”

“Such as…?”

“Let’s see,” Sam began, adjusting the position in his seat. “Being a plumber means manual dexterity, right? Hand and arm strength. You’ve probably done some sealant and caulk work, installed appliances, maybe even welding?”

Dean glanced to the side, remembering a bunch of weird stuff he’s done along the way. “Once or twice, yeah.”

“What about applying math skills? Mechanical reasoning, problem solving? You’ve had some management experience too, I think.”

“I led a team my last couple of months back home. Dunno if they’ll put me in charge of anything right off the bat here or not.”

Sam displayed his palms. “Those are all skills that can be used in literally hundreds of career paths. Write up a resume and start applying. Job hunting kind of sucks, but it’s worth it to get out of something you’re sick of.”

“I dunno, Sammy,” Dean mumbled, running a thumb over the condensation over his mostly empty beer glass. He sipped on his water again. “Most companies don’t want to hire some old guy.”

“You’re not old, Dean. You’re thirty five.”

“Yeah, well,” he began, but never finished the sentence. He needed to shut up, anyway. He was truly excited for his brother and didn’t need to start making it sound like he was jealous in any way. And he was too young for a midlife crisis, so he wasn’t sure what to call this.

“Go to some job fairs. Ask to do sit-ins. Some friends might take you to work with them.”

“I don’t have any friends yet; just Bee. And I doubt they have Take Your Roommate to Work Day at her auto repair shop.”

“Ask her. That sounds fun,” Sam encouraged. “In the meantime, do some volunteer work.” His eyes brightened with a new idea. “You could volunteer at the library!”

“No,” Dean said too quickly.

“Why not?”

Fidgeting with the napkin by his plate, Dean looked down, cornered. He downed the last gulp of beer, now nearly room temperature. Sam didn’t know about the drunken mess he was Friday night, and he never would. Sure, he caught Dean checking out the guy’s ass, and there was no way he missed how clumsily he asked for a name forty seconds before closing time. But none of that was super obvious, was it?

“I’m just not big into libraries,” he excused, still staring at the smears of buffalo sauce on his plate.

“Maybe you should be,” Sam said casually. “Did you know they’re starting up an ASL class next week, and it’s free?”

Dean began to wish he had ordered another beer, after all. “Let me guess, you’re going.”

“Sure am,” he replied proudly. “And I think you should, too. Eileen is your neighbor. It’s the neighborly thing to do.”

“Okay, Mister Rogers. Keep on justifying your obsession with sign language just because you got a crush. Have you even seen her since the elevator incident?”

Sam’s fists fell heavy on the table, and it jump-scared Dean into raising his eyes to meet his brother’s irked glare. “Volunteer, or don’t. But quit acting like you don’t like him.”

Dean’s brows furrowed defensively. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You’re avoiding him, which is weird because you couldn’t even leave the place until you knew his name.”

“Oh please,” he spat. “I was just giving him another chance to change his douche-baggy ways. Which he did not, for the record.”

“You and I both know that’s bullcrap,” Sam deadpanned. “If you want to have someone special in your life or switch careers, get that stick out of your ass and do it. But don’t try to project onto me just because I’ve already started doing those things.”

For a beat, Dean could do nothing but sit and stare, shellshocked from the _ sheer audacity.  _ There were so many directions he could take this conversation, most of them backtracking in an attempt to convince Sam that he did not, in fact, have a stick up his ass. Especially about the job thing. The whole pilot school situation simply awoke something in Dean that forced him to consider the big picture.

The point about Castiel, of course, was still up in the air. Dean could neither confirm nor deny. But if he ever did fess up, this wasn’t the place for it.

“You about done?” he asked, looking across the table at the remnants of Sam’s chicken wrap.

Rolling his eyes, Sam huffed a peeved breath. “Yeah. Fine, whatever.”

Neither of them brought up either subject during the drive home. As wrong as Sam was about, well,  _ everything,  _ he had some good points Dean needed to mull over. Mostly the job thing, with a side of the volunteering thing. However, he was far from ready for devoting mental energy to the Castiel thing, even if it did tie into the library thing.

His and Sam’s conversation also briefly covered Dean’s need for new friends. He hoped work would cover that, for the most part. Sure, he could do the expected stuff: take part in social gatherings, start up conversations with strangers, put himself out there. Where was that going to get him? In two years he was outta this joint, anyway. Why build new bonds if they were going to be broken as soon as Sam finished school?

He took his sweet time on Monday thinking about it, deciding two minutes before quitting time to work the library into his route home. Halfway there he chickened out, chalked it up as “the scenic route”, and pedaled home. He went to bed second guessing himself, wondering what he was making a big deal about after all.

The thought nagged at him all day Tuesday. He biked to the shop, picked up the keys to a company vehicle, and rolled out, unable to shake the feeling that he needed to sack up and sign up to volunteer. About halfway through the day he got the bright idea that he didn’t  _ have  _ to volunteer at the  _ library  _ per se; he could give time to the YMCA, animal shelter, or a local park. He decided to do some research at home, but once he was, he never made it past the library’s volunteer web page.

Before he knew it the week was over and he was no closer to making a decision. By Friday he was unpacking, of all things, to avoid researching in the leasing office’s computer room. By Saturday he was so desperate to circumvent the topic he began arranging his cups by color, then washed the bathtub.

Sam came over on Sunday, their discussion from the week before far away in both of their minds. Eileen returned home from work at the precise moment Sam rolled in to visit Dean, and the visit with big brother rapidly turned into signing with Eileen as much as he knew how. Dean wiggled his eyebrows suggestively as Sam disappeared into Eileen’s apartment, and actually chuckled with pride at how well his little brother and neighbor across the hall were getting along.

—

Sam’s hands moved slowly as they sat facing each other on Eileen’s couch.  _ The library is offering ASL lessons,  _ he signed to her. _ I might be able to talk Dean into going with me so we can both learn. _

_ Nothing against Dean, but I’m far more interested in what you have to say,  _ she signed back, pointing emphatically at Sam on “you.” 

Sam breathed deep, running over the signs in his head one last time before going for it. He looked at her with a bashful grin.  _ I like you. _

A smile erupted on Eileen’s face, her eyes twinkling with delight. _ I like you, too. _

Pausing before the moment of truth, Sam searched her face for any reservation, but found none.  _ Would you like to go on a date with me? _

Eileen smiled so wide she laughed.  _ I would have asked you myself, if you had waited any longer. _


	4. The One With the Interview

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean has decided on where to volunteer, but will he pass the insufferable librarian's interview?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen to [I Hate Myself for Loving You](https://youtu.be/bpNw7jYkbVc)

At last, Dean had run out of excuses. The week following his failed attempts to find another volunteer opportunity that piqued his interest, he made his move. He went home first to shower and get ready. The jeans and t-shirt under his coveralls just weren’t speaking to him — not that he had any reason to dress up.

Who did he have to impress, anyway? All he was doing was making an appearance to offer his time a few hours a week. That was all. It was no big deal.

“No big deal,” he murmured to himself as he ran vigorous hands through his hair, spreading the styling clay four times harder than usual. “It’s just a quick errand. In and out, that’s it.”

He bared his teeth in the mirror, checking for any stowaways that might have survived even the most fervent of brushings. Sticking his tongue out for good measure, he ran a hand over his face, which he did _not_ shave, because that would have been taking it too damn far. He was dropping in to say a few quick words and be on his way, not pick up a date.

He convinced himself that his outfit was casual with pale khaki shorts and white shoes. He paired it with red plaid, untucked, and sleeves rolled up. It was effortless, he told himself as he painstakingly arranged each strand of hair framing his face.

The front door opened and closed, and a wave of relief washed over him. “Bee,” he called, eyes still glued to the mirror. “Can you c’mere a second?”

She hummed in reply, walking in a few seconds later with her boots kicked off and work gloves draped across one shoulder. She rested her body weight against the doorframe, unknowingly smearing an errant fleck of motor oil against it. “What’s up?” she asked once it became apparent he wasn’t going to realize she was there until she made her presence known, as he was still fully engrossed in his appearance.

Dean finally broke eye contact with the man in the mirror, turning around with his palms displayed. “Well?”

Bee’s eyes narrowed. “Well… what?”

Dean glanced down at himself. “Is it… too much?”

“What’s the occasion?” she asked with an inquisitive head tilt.

“Uh,” Dean hesitated. “Just going out. To do some stuff.” When Bee gave him a blank look of disbelief, he relented a tiny bit. “Volunteer stuff.”

The next expression she portrayed was hard to decipher, but if Dean were to liken it to anything, it would be the hourglass computer cursor, rotating on its end again and again, in a thinking loop. Her face settled into something softer, like the download was complete and she had made a conclusion regarding _whatever it was_ she was thinking so hard about.

“Okay,” she said with a simple nod.

“Okay? As in, ‘eh’,” he twisted his hand in a so-so motion, “or like, ‘yeah that outfit is super groovy’, or whatever.”

“It’s fine, dude. It’s great. He’ll love it.”

“Yeah, I — Who?”

“Whoever you talk to about volunteering,” she recovered. “Wherever that might be.”

“Right,” Dean bounced a finger gun at her before turning back to the mirror to give himself one last once-over. “Here we go.”

Bee took her weight off the doorframe, facing away from him in just enough time to hide the knowing grin on her face. It was times like these she wished she had Sam’s number, just so she could spill some tea. It was going to be hell having to be the sole witness to Dean’s before-and-after monologues.

Not that Sam wouldn’t _eventually_ find out. Her roommate was fooling exactly zero people.

* * *

Dean took one more cleansing breath before stepping inside the library. The place was abuzz with people going every which way. Some were there after school, some after work, and others without schedules, simply there at their leisure. Several computers were taken, as well as one of the side rooms encased in glass and occupied by several teens working on a group project.

To the side, the front display consisted of a boulder-sized foam sphere covered in blue and green paper mache, suspended by a fishing line from the ceiling. Under it sat a table with books spanning subjects from sustainable science projects to endangered insects and everything in between. Dean had to admit it was an impressive display, even if it was probably either designed or approved by _him._

Speak of the devil. Emerging from behind the circulation desk was Castiel himself, once again dressed to match the overall theme, which did some very contradictory things to Dean. Although Castiel had spared the world of tweed this time, the print on his shirt consisted of tiny cartoon-style Earths. It was quirky, endearing, and it was getting under Dean’s skin.

Combined with his rich brown hair and piercing blue eyes, the combo was simply unfair. He was devastatingly handsome — there was no way around that — and Dean had to remind himself that he hated him. Hating him would make things easier.

But no. As many times as he could repeat his dislike for him inside his head, his downstairs brain had other ideas. He felt torn in two directions, and it immediately set him into an aggravated mood. So when Castiel noticed his staring, Dean could only blink and leave his mouth agape for whatever witty explanation he was banking on coming to mind.

After Dean stood there motionless long enough for the next family walking in to pass him and make it halfway to youth fiction, Castiel took it upon himself to approach. Seeing Castiel getting closer did no favors for Dean’s repertoire of openers, as now he could discern some things about his frame that the vest had initially distracted him from. Namely, that Cas was not scrawny, much to the dismay of the half of Dean’s brain that didn’t want to be attracted to him.

“Good afternoon,” Castiel said once he was close enough for his low, hushed voice to be heard. The greeting hung in the air, like he wanted to say something else, and Dean could only guess it could be completed with his name.

“Dean,” he reminded him quietly.

“Yes, I know.”

_Ah, so he hasn’t forgotten._

“I’d like to talk to you about volunteering. Here. At the library,” Dean explained in detached phrases, each word sounding more obvious than the last. He couldn’t help it. How was he supposed to concentrate when eyes that blue were staring directly back into his?

Castiel’s reply was not verbal, but words were unnecessary after the look he gave Dean. It was piercing, like he was trying to assess every thought process that had led Dean to this exact spot. The only thing he couldn’t decipher was whether the look was positive, negative, or neutral.

“Told you I’m plugging in. Well,” Dean said with a shrug, “here I am. Plugging in.”

The explanation seemed to appease Castiel, whose intense stare alleviated as he glanced at the circulation desk and back. “We appreciate all the help we can get, of course. I will arrange for someone to interview you, and then we can —”

“Wait, an interview? For volunteering?”

Castiel’s eyes narrowed just a hair as if hiding the fact that it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Yes. What day this week would work for you?”

“Uh,” Dean mumbled while mentally running through his week. It was relatively uneventful, other than work and that ASL class Sam was dragging him to, but he wasn’t even sure what day that was going to be. “Today?”

One of Castiel’s brows inched up, likely unconsciously, and he walked off to converse with the two employees behind the desk. Their chat lasted about half a minute, during which time each of the women Castiel talked to took turns glancing in Dean’s direction. Near the end of their conversation, Castiel’s countenance began to fall into one of simmering indignance.

He collected himself and returned to Dean. “Follow me,” the librarian instructed.

Dean smirked to himself as they walked. He couldn’t put his finger on why he felt a sliver of pride at this moment, besides the fact that Castiel obviously wanted to pin the job on someone else and now his feathers were ruffled. Dean couldn’t think of why, though. Unless…? _Nah._

Unless Castiel hated Dean as much as Dean hated Castiel.

The librarian led them into one of the glass-walled rooms. Castiel sat in the chair adjacent to one of the ends, and Dean sat directly across from him. If he truly did not want the chore of interviewing Dean, it was inconspicuous enough by now. Then again, he wasn’t exactly jumping for joy, either.

Castiel was trying very hard to be difficult to read. But Dean has always had a knack for reading people.

“Tell me about yourself, Dean,” came the first question, Castiel’s voice at the highest volume Dean had heard to date. It was comfortably loud, like they were talking anywhere — at a cafe, in the grocery store, or even outside. 

Its roughness took Dean by surprise, but he internalized what it was physically doing to him, and played instead to its unfamiliarity. “Soundproof room, huh?”

At first Castiel looked like he might ask for clarification, but a beat later realized what Dean meant. “Valuable for interactions such as this. We can’t whisper everywhere.”

Dean blew a puff of air out of his nose, stifling a laugh. It took Castiel by surprise, who squinted at him, oblivious to the absurdity to the fear of talking above a certain decibel, under penalty of “shush.” There might be people out there excelling at keeping their volume down, but Dean was not one of them. Even his jeans made noise, and if he couldn’t even feel comfortable walking around, what was the point of suffering in this joint every week?

But instead of dwelling on Castiel’s laughable obsession with near absolute quietness, Dean responded to the interview question. “You already know the part about me and my brother moving so he can take classes. Let’s see, I like to fish. Oh, and we’re planning on taking the sign language classes going on here.”

“Sister Jo is an excellent teacher,” Castiel said. “You and your brother will learn a lot from her. Is there someone in your life inspiring you to learn the language?"

“My neighbor,” Dean replied, then smiled at the thought of Sam being such a lovestruck fool. “My brother’s…”

Castiel tilted his head. “...Special someone?”

“He’s hopeful.” Dean looked up, but wasn’t prepared for the sharp gaze Castiel gave. It was like the words that left the librarian’s lips left an aura in their wake, consuming the air between them and seeping into their skin. Its intention was either unclear or Dean refused to face it, but one thing was certain: It wasn’t hate.

Recovering from it, Castiel cleared his throat and resituated himself in the chair. It was Dean’s turn to narrow his eyes, waiting for something else, something that might explain away what their eyes just did when they met. It was unnerving, and slightly inappropriate for an interview, so he bit his lip and looked slightly to the side when Castiel presented his next question.

“What about your educational and work background?”

“What about it?”

Castiel didn’t respond right away to the pushback, but he didn’t back down from the question, either. He swallowed, searching the face that was acting like it didn’t see his Adam’s apple glide under his skin. Dean’s eyes were forward, yet picked up on everything Castiel did. He saw Castiel’s finger twitch, the wrinkle of his brow tighten; every microexpression he gave, Dean drank in.

“Your expertise could be useful to others seeking information regarding those subjects,” Castiel reasoned.

Dean snort-laughed. “My expertise.” Alas, the humor of it all clearly went over Castiel’s head. “Unless you’ve got people rolling in here asking for all the trade secrets of installing pipe assemblies, I don’t have much to offer there. I took a few classes at a community college right out of high school, but that was a long time ago.”

“I see,” Castiel said with a nod, without a hint of the derision Dean was expecting. It was like he was just o-friggin-kay with Dean having zero talents and education so far behind him he might actually have some trouble digging up his transcripts. Or maybe Castiel was judging him internally. It was impossible for Dean to tell.

What Dean could tell, however, was how Castiel never quite looked him directly into his eye ever since their faces did _the thing._ His gaze hovered around Dean’s face — his eyelashes, his freckles, even the bridge of his nose — but never into the black of his eyes. Maybe he was afraid of it happening again, and Dean didn’t know whether to be thankful for that not, because at this point he was just really damn curious.

He was curious about what would happen if their eyes did _the thing_ again. It might have been a freak thing that would never occur again, but even scarier, what if it wasn’t? What if with every intense look, they delved a little deeper into each other’s souls? 

He couldn’t look that long at Castiel’s eyes because it was like looking into a mirror and seeing something just out of reach. It was hidden in the reflection, except in the span of time it took to blink, it was gone again. Something utterly terrifying because both of them witnessed it happen and were trying to ignore its existence, and yet it hung in the air.

It was utterly terrifying, not because they wanted to deny its existence, but because they _needed_ to. Dean needed to hate Castiel, and he needed Castiel to hate him back. He needed Castiel to be an asshole jerkface douchewad so he could _hate_ him until the day he died, but right now Dean couldn’t. He couldn’t because Castiel was gorgeous and smart and _actually kinda nice._

It made Dean even more angry, with nowhere to direct the fire in his bones.

“Why do you want to volunteer here?”

The question brought him back to the present, and he focused on the librarian with his fingers crossed on the table, back slightly slumped into an eased but no less domineering stance. This room, hell, this entire building was Castiel’s comfort zone, his domain. In his heart of hearts, Dean knew the guy wasn’t flaunting, but he needed to believe he was, so he could keep finding stuff that was wrong with him.

“Hmm,” Dean hummed. He looked off to the side, because he definitely hadn’t thought that one through. “I wanna do something else — a new job. I just have no idea where to start. Thought the library would be a good place to get ideas.”

Castiel pursed his lips together briefly, raising his brows. Dean’s reply was undoubtedly unexpected, and yet if he didn’t know any better, Castiel looked a tiny bit impressed by it. Maybe it was the quick change in expression, or maybe it was the twinkle in his eye that Dean almost missed. But no, it was definitely there.

“You’ll certainly have plenty of subjects at your disposal,” the librarian assured him. “I hope you find what you’re looking for.”

The last part pulled Dean in, damning to hell the fear of their gazes crossing. He looked full-on at Castiel, into him even, probing for the meaning behind the words. Dean knew how piercing his eyes could be, and he utilized it, staring unblinking into those deep sea blues.

Blinking downward, Castiel sucked in a stream of air, presumably to fuel his next sentence. “Our patrons include people from all walks of life. You will be working with and around people with belief systems, cultural backgrounds, and abilities that differ from yours. The library is a space for everyone. Is that clear?”

“Crystal.”

Castiel straightened his back, still sitting with his fingers intertwined. “Do you have a problem welcoming the homeless?”

Dean’s sharp gaze faltered at Castiel’s new stance. He was also doing his serious face, which knocked Dean out of his zone. “No, of course not.”

“Do you have a problem with disabled people?”

“No.”

“People who speak a language other than English?”

“Tidak.”

Castiel’s mouth snapped shut, his eyes widening by a small amount.

“Indonesian,” Dean muttered playfully. “I dated someone for like, two weeks...” He debated the next part, but he had to put it out there. He _had_ to see Castiel’s reaction. “He taught me a few words, most of which I can’t say in polite company.”

The corner of Castiel’s brow turned up. His head tilted a tad, but it didn’t hide the look in his eyes that told Dean all he needed to know. His face turned guarded, but intrigued, as if allowing his mouth the smallest movement would give away his level of interest. 

And Dean was _very_ interested in finding out what level that was.

It was obvious Castiel held no issue with Dean having dated at least one man. His face would’ve done that other thing, where the light in their eyes reels back like they touched something gooey in the sink. No, his interviewer was not displeased that Dean was being perfectly queer. On the contrary, his face was doing its best to not give away just how very pleased he was.

Dean friggin’ called it. Straight as a slinky.

“Do you know any other languages?”

With a lax smirk, Dean yielded to the course-correction. “Nah, learning new languages isn’t really my strong point.”

“What would you say are your strong points?” asked Castiel, his expression settling back into comfortable professionalism. Shame, too. Dean very much enjoyed seeing him flustered. “It’s important for me to assign you to tasks based on your skillset, to maximize your time volunteering here.”

Another question Dean hadn’t prepared for. He blew a short lip trill, then rested his elbows on the table and laced his fingers, unconsciously mimicking Castiel’s self-soothing gesture. “Hands-on stuff, I guess. I mean, that’s kinda my job.” His mind flashed back to his and Sam’s conversation over chicken wings. “Applying algebra and geometry. Planning projects. There’s obviously a lot of manual labor involved.”

Castiel glanced down at Dean’s arms. “I’ll keep those in mind,” he said before Dean could fully register that, although his brief downward look was quick enough to miss in a blink, _Castiel had totally just checked out the guns._ “Anything else that might be of use to us?”

Dean’s chest inflated a little. _Still got it._ “That’s all she wrote, Giles. I’m a pretty simple guy.”

Castiel shot him _a look_ at the nickname, his own chest rising under the pressure of a deep but mostly inaudible sigh. His shirt buttons strained against it, and after the exhale, he sat back against the chair and returned his hands to his lap. Dean realized far too late that his own eyes had wandered somewhere between the death glare and now.

“Do you have any questions for me?”

_Nothing I can say out loud._ “How many hours per week are we talking?”

“Two to six.”

“When do I start?”

“After you pass a criminal background check. I trust you brought identification?”

Dean shifted in his seat to reach his wallet, feeling the intensity of Castiel’s stare even while twisted around enough to not be able to see him in his peripheral. He was an attractive guy; he knew the tingling sensation of someone’s eyes raking over him, analyzing every line of his physique, imagining him in porn star-worthy positions.

There was looking, and there was _looking,_ and Castiel was definitely looking at him _like that._ Dean cleared his throat lightly, a warning that he had found his wallet and was about to turn back around. Castiel took the hint, returning his gaze to the respectable region of Dean’s face as he handed over his ID. It was about to be the most casual hand-off ever, when Dean misjudged the distance and leaned an inch or so more than he needed to, and their fingers brushed.

In the span of a second, the inch worth of touch between them took on the intensity and heat of every other inch of skin not touching. That tiny patch between a few fingers and a plastic card felt alive with fire, ice, and electricity. It charged them, sending warm currents from their hands deep into their loins, a stark reminder that the tension between them had very little to do with ill feelings.

It frightened Dean, and pissed him off a little, because oh, how he needed to hate Castiel. His body ached with the innate need to find fault with his perfectly sculpted face, dark stubble, and the firm chest under his ridiculous Earth Day shirt. He simply couldn’t allow himself to be taken by Castiel’s rich voice, offbeat personality, and the way he loved decorating himself for weird holidays as much as the library.

But worst of all, Dean needed to hate his stupidly blue eyes. Every time he looked at them was like looking at them for the first time. He could never tire of them and knowing that was terrifying. If he could simply get over the eyes, he might have stood a chance of getting over everything else about the handsome librarian. But no. Everything else was a lost cause, all because of his gorgeous goddamn eyes.

And if all that wasn’t enough, here he was, feeling a tingle in his dick from brushing fingers with the guy. Fan-freaking-tastic. Dean knew himself well enough to know he was going to be thinking about this frozen moment in time on a repeating loop. Hating Castiel wasn’t going to get any easier when the ghost of his touch was going to linger on his skin for the next three weeks.

So yes, Dean was a little pissed off. He was pissed that all he wanted to do was keep touching Castiel until not an inch of his body was left untouched. He was pissed that he wanted to keep feeling tingly, but everywhere. He wanted to feel it in the wake of Castiel’s tongue and fingertips. And he was pissed as hell that for a split second, Castiel looked like he might indulge him. How was Dean supposed to stop what he was thinking and feeling when the man across from him looked like he wanted to devour him whole?

“Thank you,” Castiel graveled, looking down at the ID as their hands lost contact. He stood up and Dean followed, both doing an absolute stellar job of ignoring what had just happened between them. It took Dean until they had exited the soundproof room to realize that his breathing was hard enough to hear. Castiel led them to the circulation desk, where he copied the ID, set it on the counter, then presented Dean with a sheet of paper on a clipboard and a pen.

“Name and phone number,” the librarian said in a hushed tone, as inexpressive as the white paper he expected Dean to write on. “One of us will contact you in a few days.”

As if the exploding tension between them, set off by brushing fingers, wasn’t enough, the whiplash of sudden nonchalance did it for him. Dean dragged his lip through his teeth, barely holding back from calling Castiel a bitch to his face. Swiping up the pen as loudly as possible, Dean scribbled down his name and number, giving the librarian the most fake polite smile he could muster, and stormed out.


	5. The One Where Dean Volunteers at the Library for the First Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Although he denies any positive feelings for that blue-eyed asshole, Dean can't hide his excitement over getting a call-back regarding his library interview.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen to [At the Library](https://youtu.be/mCOnOyTdu8s)

“I hate him,” Dean mumbled into a bottle of whiskey as he sat slumped on the couch.

“Mm-hmm,” Bee hummed cynically. She sat cross-legged on the other end of the couch, indulging her munchies on a bag of beef jerky. There was something on tv but neither had paid attention since the late show ended.

“No, seriously.”

“Look Mr. ‘Dubs, I’m no expert on volunteer work. But did you expect him to fall at your feet and thank you in advance for your service? The more I think about it, the more an interview makes sense.”

“But,” Dean sputtered, “it’s not like a paid position or nothin’.”

“You know what I think?”

Dean’s head bobbled unceremoniously in Bee’s direction.

“I don’t think this is about the interview.”

“Shaddap,” he snapped, shaking the bottle in her general direction. A slosh of whiskey spilled onto the floor. “Didn’t even tell you who interviewed me.”

“You didn’t have to,” she chuckled. 

Dean read the black and white whiskey label, then took another sip. Then he read it again. “What gave it away?”

Bee ripped a piece of jerky between her teeth and shrugged. “I just know it when I see it, man.”

Too drunk to know precisely what “it” was and too sober to ask, Dean laid his head back, the couch swallowing him even more than before. “I think he hates me too.”

“Why is that?”

Dean’s shoulders made a vague shrugging motion, which buried him even further into the cushions. The position was far from comfortable and downright unhealthy, but he would deal with any repercussions of his drunken incline in the morning. “Cause he’s a jackass! Dammit.”

Inspired by Dean’s slow surrender to the softness, Bee unfolded her legs and laid her head on the couch arm nearest to her. “Whataya think your first job’ll be?”

“Mm,” Dean spoke in slurs, which were muffled further by the headrest swallowing his face. “Duftsing t’he berchks, ‘r some schit.”

Bee yawned, pulling down the quilt they kept folded over the couch. She was too tired to unfold it, so she draped the whole thing over her, turning inward to face the couch with a bag of jerky cradled in her arms. “If you wake me up I’ll kick your face.”

The only response she got was a very light snore.

* * *

Dean might have been ass-deep in the ground digging up some old bastard’s pipe, but it didn’t stop him from answering his phone in the middle of work. Usually, he would let it ring, but he was expecting a call. Plus, he  _ might have _ programmed the library’s number into his cell phone, just so he would be ready. Not that he was over-eager or anything.

“Hello?”

“Hello, this is Hannah from the central library. Is this Dean Winchester?”

“It certainly is.”

“I have great news. Your background check cleared, so you’re all set to begin!”

“Phew,” he said as a workmate jumped into the ground alongside him. “They didn’t find out about all the money laundering, huh?”

To his relief, Hannah laughed.  _ So the head honcho is the only one with no sense of humor and a stick up his ass? Got it.  _ “Do Thursdays at 6 pm work for you?”

“It’s a date.”

“Wonderful! Oh, one more thing. The annual St. John’s County comic con is coming up next month, and we would appreciate all hands on deck. Hopefully this is far enough in advance for you to join us?”

“Sure thing,” Dean replied as a chunk of dirt flew by his face. Honestly, the idea of comic conventions never held much appeal to him, but he wanted to be useful and this chick sounded nice. Maybe she was even nicer in person.

“Great! We’ll see you later this week.”

Dean hung up and slipped his phone back into his pocket, his spirits renewed with the grounding knowledge of a definite schedule in play at last. It had been several days since the interview, and even though he had nothing to worry about in regard to his background check, the wait was still grueling. Even his and Sam’s first ASL class felt tense.

His little brother was so far ahead of everyone else in class, the teacher had to recommend extra material just to keep him from being bored. He had gotten a head start the night he and Eileen got stuck in the elevator, after all. Sister Jo even asked him to help out one of his classmates who was struggling with the technicality of a sign. 

But at last, the fog had lifted. Now all Dean had to put up with was being in the same general vicinity as Castiel for three hours every week, for two years. If Dean could refrain from pulling his own hair out every time the asshole tilted his head or looked at him  _ like that,  _ it might not be so bad, after all.

The rest of the day went smoothly, as did most of the week. Thursday came like any other day, at least, that was what Dean tried to tell himself. For the life of him, he couldn’t figure out why he spent the whole day with butterflies in his stomach and his distracted mind attempting to read a blueprint upside down.

“Dammit, it’s only one night a week,” he mumbled while rolling the blueprints back up. The work site was too loud for his voice to carry, so he kept speaking to himself as he prepared to hand off the work to someone else and head home. “He might not even be there on Thursday nights. He can’t be there all the time; he doesn’t friggin’ live there.”

Once he was home and about halfway through his shower, he was able to start thinking objectively about the whole thing. He needed to pick out clothes. What did people even wear volunteering at the library? No dress code was specified, so he assumed he could show up in just about anything short of a Speedo and stilettos. 

He would need to find out more about the comic con while he was there. Date, time, every list of to-dos in preparation; he couldn’t say he was into the nerd scene, so he didn’t know what to expect, but he was down with experiencing it from an operational point of view. And who knows? Maybe nerds could be fun. His brother certainly wasn’t, but he was just one person.

Arriving at the library in a simple v-neck and shorts, Dean was relieved to see most patrons in the same general state of dress. Florida was hot, even in April, but it hadn’t stopped him from unconsciously comparing his outfits to that of the stuffy head librarian. Speaking of which, Dean spotted a mass of dark hair disappearing between two bookcases in youth nonfiction. Although he didn’t catch a glimpse of what weird holiday Castiel was celebrating today, Dean figured he would find a clue on the front display.

On the way to the circulation desk, he flashed a curious glance at the arrangement. At least two dozen newspaper cut-outs and printed flyers with “LOST” and “Have You Seen Me?” dog pictures were affixed around books like  _ The Lost Dogs _ and movies like  _ Homeward Bound. _

The display tugged at Dean’s heartstrings in a cheesy kind of way. He wondered if those flyers were real or made up just for the display.

“Dean?” a woman’s soft voice said.

The greeting tore his attention away from the display and towards the circulation desk, where a dark-haired lady had stepped out from behind to approach him so she wouldn’t have to speak too loud.

“Hey,” he replied, stubbornly not giving into the level of quietness of which Castiel would approve. He might want to be of help, but damn, he wasn’t going to strain his vocal cords doing it.

The woman smiled courteously. “Thank you for coming. My name is Hannah. We spoke on the phone?”

Dean’s eyes brightened. Her voice did sound vaguely familiar, although the whisper hid most of it. At any rate, one thing was certain. She was definitely nice in person, too. She wore patterned capris and a loose sleeveless top with heeled sandals — not quite as stiff as Castiel, but not overly casual, either. She had bright eyes that contrasted with her dark hair, almost like —

_ Stop. You can’t let everyone with blue eyes remind you of that dick,  _ Dean scolded himself. “Yes, I remember.” Out of the corner of his eye, Dean spotted the librarian himself oblivious to his arrival, making his way through youth nonfiction with a few books under his arm. Probably weed-whacking, or whatever he called it.

“Would you like a tour?” she offered, oblivious to both Dean’s peripheral detection and foreground interest. 

If it involved walking to parts of the library where Dean wouldn’t be afflicted with Castiel’s presence, he was all in. He slipped his fingers comfortably into his pockets and gave a charming smile. “Definitely.”

She led him around each section, spieling off an odd fact about each one. She said things like “Someone pitched a tent in this corner last month” and “This is the chair the most people have died in” with such nonchalance, Dean had to wonder if places like this were really as calm as he was led to believe.

After returning to the circulation desk, Hannah retrieved a microfiber cloth and bottle of cleaner from one of the cabinets. “I couldn’t help but notice the children’s area could use some tidying. Would you mind starting there?”

_ Of course,  _ he thought.  _ Starting me off with the grunt work.  _ “You got it, boss,” he said, taking the supplies and heading off. He stole one last glance at the front display, focusing on one flyer with a particularly cute lost puppy, and wondered when he’d move up the ranks enough to help put together something like that.

He hadn’t paid much attention when Hannah was showing him around, but come to think of it, it was a bit of a mess. One of the activity tables had drawings in permanent marker on it, with a suspicious lack of Sharpies to supply the markings. The other two tables would be easy, as one simply needed the building blocks bleached and tossed back into the box and the other was a wooden train set.

Dean zeroed in on the permanent marker drawings, spraying a heavy layer of cleaner on the table before applying the microfiber cloth. The markings didn’t budge. He sprayed it again in a huff, waiting twenty seconds before bending down to scrub the table within an inch of its inanimate life. Fingers warm from the friction, he looked at the cloth, only to find it had picked up none of the ink.

“Son of a bitch,” he murmured before covering the table in yet another layer of cleaner. He flung the cloth over one of the small wooden chairs, turning his attention to another table for the time being. He sprayed down all the building blocks and shoved them off the table and into the attached bin, then arranged the chairs neatly. As he returned to the troublesome marker table, a child meandered into the space, taking a quick look at the three tables before sitting at the table Dean just cleared and began taking blocks out of the bin.

Dean rubbed the markings harder than ever, forcing a squeaking sound out of the saturated surface. The sound of a hundred building blocks crashing onto the short carpet reached his ears, and he turned just in time to see the frightened child hurry off to his mother, who was looking at DVDs in the adjacent aisle. He was left with the entire bin emptied onto the floor, a train set that still needed cleaning, and a table of permanent marker drawings that bested him in battle.

He sighed in the wake of it. 

“Don’t spend too much time on that table. Those drawings are never going to come out,” Castiel’s hushed, gravely voice said from above him.

Dean looked up to see the librarian in his usual neutral composure, scouring the shelves for hardly checked out books. Just as expected, he was dressed far too formally for hot and humid Florida, but his shirt was void of any quirky prints. It was a little disappointing. Although… was that a belt buckle… with a dog’s face on it?

“Lost Dog Awareness Day,” Castiel supplied when Dean’s eyes fell just a little lower than was socially acceptable, especially from that angle. “I’m sure you gathered that from the front display, however.”

Dean gave a single, long nod. Indeed he had gathered something along those lines, but hearing it made it all come together. He rose from his spot on the floor, now conscious about just how level he had been with everything below Castiel’s belt. “Those actual lost dogs? All of ‘em?”

Castiel nodded. “It would be rather pointless to raise awareness for actual lost dogs with fake flyers.”

_ Well, when he says it like that,  _ Dean pondered, but never finished the thought, because at this point the guy was getting on his nerves. He just couldn’t figure out if it was on purpose or if Castiel was this much of a little shit to everyone. Or maybe he didn’t realize how irritating his point-blank logic was. Lastly, and least likely, this was Castiel’s idea of a sense of humor, and if so, it was the driest, most deadpan disposition he had ever encountered.

Between bookcases, on a shelf too high for young children to reach, sat a dusty lamp. Dean wiped the base of it, then the shade, using the microfiber cloth, still drenched with cleaner. It gave him an excuse to look away to think of a clever comeback while still looking busy. Not that he couldn’t talk to Castiel while looking at his stupid, gorgeous face. He just wanted to make a good first impression as a volunteer. He couldn’t look lazy on his first day.

“I’ll get that marker out,” he vowed, “just you watch me.”

Castiel shrugged. “It’s been there through roughly eight hundred cleanings. No hard feelings if you can’t.”

_ Oh, it’s so friggin’ on.  _ Dean walked past Castiel, perhaps an inch or two too closely, to the table with all the building blocks. “Alright, Giles.”

“It’s Castiel.”

Dean wasn’t even looking in the librarian’s direction, but he smirked, kneeling on the floor to scoop up blocks and toss them into the bin. He reveled in the loudness they made, wondering if it bothered Castiel. He cleaned them up as loudly as he could, and when every block was up, he stood up and turned to see the same man with books under his arm, but with an irked look.

“Could you… Could you do that a little quieter?”

“I didn’t see you bitchin’ about the kids making a bunch of racket.”

“They’re children,” Castiel whispered harshly, his perfectly groomed hair and flawless outfit a contrast to his frazzled expression. It was priceless. If Dean could paint, he would Bob Ross that bitch.

“They’re building blocks,” Dean said flatly in his regular voice. “They’re gonna make noise.”

“Shh,” Castiel hissed, bringing a finger to his mouth.

Dean bit the inside of his lip, stifling an aggravated groan, before stepping right into Castiel’s space and grabbing the nearby lamp. He shoved it into the unsuspecting librarian’s arms. 

Castiel’s brows furrowed as he glanced down at the object he was now holding. “Why are you giving me this lamp?”

“Because you need to lighten the hell up,” Dean quipped, stomping off with his cleaning supplies.

He made it back to the circulation desk without looking back even once. Hannah was talking to a man pushing a book cart, while another woman scanned items someone brought to the desk to check out. He stepped behind the desk, returning the supplies to the cabinet he saw Hannah open and walked over to her. After she finished speaking to the book cart guy, she noticed him nearby and waved him over as she began walking towards another cart full of items.

“On a scale of one to ten,” she began, “how comfortable are you with the Dewey decimal system?”

Dean chuckled nervously. “I’m a little rusty. Could use a refresher.”

Hannah pushed the cart into his space. “No time like the present.”

Gripping onto the handle, Dean pushed the cart out from behind the circulation desk, following Hannah. Her cordial demeanor was hard not to like, especially in contrast to Castiel’s cryptic aloofness. It wasn’t nearly as exciting being around her, but in a way it put him at ease, a moment of peace between the times with Castiel that would leave him breathless.

And really, what was stopping him from putting himself out there? Hannah was nice, which was more than he could say for Lamp Man back in the children’s section. Besides, maybe the best way to get Castiel out of his head was to put someone else there. Dean hadn’t seen any action since he moved to St. Augustine, but not from lack of trying.

He had struck out at the pastry shop. None of his new workmates were into men, as far as he could tell. Nobody at ASL class had struck his fancy. He had yet to download any dating apps.

Yep, it was definitely time to get out his dry spell.

Hannah gave him a simplified rundown of how things worked, explaining both fiction and nonfiction classifications. She used one of the books on his cart as the practice round. Before putting his new skills to the test, she gave him a laminated card with the numbered categories listed with their nonfiction subjects.

“This one is ‘Living with the Gods’,” she said, handing him the book. “I’ll give you a hint: adult nonfiction. Which subject would this item be under?”

Dean read over the whole title.  _ Living with the Gods, on beliefs and peoples, First United States Edition.  _ “Religion,” he replied, glancing down at the laminated card to see it listed beside the 200s.

“What’s the number?”

He turned the book on its side. “200.9.”

Hannah tilted her head towards nonfiction. “Let’s go, then.”

Finding the exact spot was the hardest part, but he caught on. Hannah seemed impressed, but Dean tried not to let it get to his head. It was entirely possible she stroked every volunteer’s ego on their first day. Whether or not it was true, Dean had to admit he had always been a quick learner.

“Think you’ve got it from here?” she asked after ‘Living with the Gods’ was returned to the shelf. 

Dean felt a pang of disappointment at the knowledge that he had already advanced beyond needing Hannah’s help. His big plans of flirting went out the window — for the time being; he could always try again once his cart was empty — but he smiled and nodded. “Yeah, think so.”

“Great. If you have any questions and I’m not at the circulation desk, just ask one of the other assistants.”

Before he could blurt out a cute outro about only accepting  _ her  _ assistance, she tapped the book cart and headed towards the front of the building. He watched her leave, his eye drawn to someone between shelves in the distance, pulling out a book with a side-eye keenly on Dean. It was Castiel, and as soon as Dean shifted his gaze, the librarian lowered his head, focusing on the book joining the others under his arm.

Dean hummed inquisitively to himself, one brow raising in suspicion. After Castiel refused to raise his eyes back up, Dean shrugged it off and reached for the next item on his cart. It was an action movie, and after distractedly reading the summary on the back, he returned it to its spot in the adult DVD section. 

The next item was a thick book full of novels by some old fart named Kurt Vonnegut. Dean flipped through the middle pages before settling on the start of a story called  _ Hocus Pocus.  _ “Just one page,” he promised himself as he began reading. He wasn’t a speed reader, preferring to take in every word to fully appreciate a story’s artistry. Once he reached the end of the first page, he had already talked himself into a second.

“Well,” he mumbled as his eyes darted across the unfolded pages. “I can’t just read the left side and not the right. That’s like… sucking only one nipple.”

And so he fell under the book’s spell, gradually sliding down against the cart, legs bent between two aisles. The non-linear narrative of this Vonnegut guy held his attention, as did the satirical voice threaded throughout. Throughout the story, the main character expresses his desire to make two lists: the number of people he has killed, and how many women he has slept with.

Dean was just getting to the prison break part when a nearby woman cleared her throat, both pulling his attention out of the book and hitting him with the realization that an unknown amount of time had passed. His eyes shot up to see Hannah with the amused air of catching someone's hands in the cookie jar. What time was it? Hell, what  _ day  _ was it?

“Would you like to borrow that?” she asked softly, her voice devoid of chastisement.

“Oh my God,” Dean sighed, dropping the book in his lap. He shifted around and felt his support start to roll before remembering he was sitting against the cart full of books he was supposed to be putting away. “This looks so bad. I’m… I’m…”

“Don’t,” Hannah insisted, holding up her palms. “It actually happens a lot, and not just to volunteers.”

“Wha —” Dean’s brows knitted curiously. “Really?”

“Facing so much knowledge for hours can be overwhelming,” she explained. “Everyone eases into it differently. Some leave with twenty books they found during their volunteer hours. Others, like yourself, shut it all out… except for one piece that happened to pique their interest.”

Dean groaned as he rose to his feet. He really was getting too old to sit his tailbone on a stiff carpet for hours at a time. And what was that analysis even supposed to mean? He figured there must be a personality test somewhere in there, but he wasn’t interested. At the moment, all he wanted was a couple of Advil and a good night’s sleep.

“To answer your question, yes, I would like to borrow it. Also, what time is it?”

Hannah grimaced. “8:58.”

“Crap,” Dean mumbled, running his hand over his face. “Some help I am.”

“It was your first day,” Hannah said as she took the book from Dean’s hands. “Castiel always gives first-timers a pass.”

_ Not all first timers. Some first-timers he gives an attitude, and then stares at them from across the room like a creep.  _

“Now, let’s get you checked out.”

“Hmmph,” he hummed, pushing the cart to the circulation desk. He handed Hannah his card and she scanned it, then the book. It was the first time Dean had checked anything out of the library in years. In fact, he couldn’t even remember what his last library item was. The feeling of having a plastic-wrapped book with a due date placed in his hand was an old, familiar one, and he enjoyed feeling it again.

“See you next Thursday,” she said as he flipped the cover open to glance at the due date printed on the receipt, then closed it again.

“See ya,” he replied with a small half smile. He held the book at his side and walked out, Hannah locking the door after him, and held it against one of the handlebars on his ride home.


	6. The One Where Dean Wins Against the Permanent Marker Stains

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean plugs into his community more than ever, determined to help bring the library's annual comic convention to life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen to [Lonesome Loser](https://youtu.be/ay1FBKsF2Nk)

Dean spent an entire week researching what could get permanent marker out of wood. He stared it down walking past it on his and Sam’s way to ASL class, like the worthy opponent it was. Psychological torment was part of the game. He had to plant a seed of doubt in its smug little wooden knots. Those bastard drawings were going down.

The following Thursday night, he biked to the library armed with an arsenal of odd cleaning supplies in a drawstring backpack. He cut Castiel off before he could assign Dean a job, insisting on “finishing what he started” and marching to the kids’ section with determination. He was pleased to see that Castiel chose to stick around, crossing his arms and leaning against the lamp shelf. Good. He wanted to impress at least one person that night, and since he was getting absolutely nowhere with Hannah, he might as well show off for Castiel.

“By the way,” Dean said as he sat on the floor and reached into his bag. “I need you to spill all the dirty deets on the comic con.”

“Is that… toothpaste?”

Dean squeezed a gob directly onto one of the drawings. “Is that a Bug’s Bunny tie?”

Castiel glanced down at the tie hanging from his neck and centered it. “It’s Bug’s Bunny Day.”

“Of course it’s friggin’ Bug’s Bunny Day,” Dean mumbled under his breath. Reaching back into his bag, he pulled out a water bottle and washcloth. He poured some water on the cloth and got to work scrubbing the gob of toothpaste into the wooden grain.

“All public information regarding our annual convention can be found online.”

“I mean as a volunteer, you dork.” When Dean glanced up to see Castiel staring at him blankly, he rolled his eyes. “Hannah asked me to help out. Geez, don’t your assistants tell you this stuff?”

“I delegate most comic con planning to her. I simply sign off on everything as a formality. She usually has good judgment regarding the logistics of it all: vendors, contests… volunteer help.”

One of Dean’s brows shot into the air at the peculiar way Castiel said the word “usually”, but after scrubbing the table for so long, it was time for the big reveal. He flipped the cloth over, allowing the clean side to take any traces of toothpaste, and lifted it to reveal… drawings.

They were much fainter than before, but they were still there.

“Son of a —”

“I told you, Dean,” Castiel reminded him. “That table has been like that for a long time. You don’t have to —”

Dean held up a silencing finger and used his other hand to fish out the rest of his supplies: a bottle of 409, rubbing alcohol, and a magic eraser. Castiel looked equal parts exasperated and intrigued, taking his weight off the shelf to step closer to the children’s activity table. The markings were a lost cause and he should have been helping with closing duties instead of watching Dean waste time.

But no. Here he was, watching Dean do basic chemistry on an activity table. Maybe Castiel only stuck around because of the possibility of the table retaining its title of reigning champion. Or maybe he was genuinely curious. It was hard for Dean to tell, but Castiel wouldn’t confess even if asked.

So Dean left the why’s of their conversation alone and went for what he really wanted to know. Every once in a while since last Thursday, his mind wandered to the moment between looking at Hannah and looking at Castiel, when the librarian’s gaze fell indisputably on him. Why else would he look in that direction? Castiel was eyeing him, Dean was sure of it!

Castiel had no reason to look. He had no reason to care. Unless…

Dean sprayed one particular drawing with 409 and wetted the magic eraser with rubbing alcohol. “I might not know anything about comic cons, but I can move stuff around.”

“I never said you couldn’t.”

Glancing up, Dean slowed his painstaking rubs. “Hannah seems excited about me helping out."

“Hannah is excited when anyone agrees to help out.” Castiel shot down the sentiment in a tone that somehow remained civil, despite Dean’s attempts at provocation. “Organizing a comic convention is a huge undertaking. She is grateful for help wherever she can find it.”

That was the most polite way of saying ‘you’re not special’ Dean had heard to date. “Yeah, but,” he argued, “she’s… nice.”

“She’s nice to everyone.”

Dean shrugged. “Even you?”

Castiel exhaled sharply. “Why wouldn’t she be nice to me?”

Raising a brow and tilting his head, Dean ceased everything he wanted to say behind closed lips and stopped rubbing the wood. There was a dick joke  _ right there,  _ but he was on a mission. He looked under the magic eraser and smirked.

“Voila,” he beamed, tossing the magic eraser over his shoulder and framing with adoring hands the one spot on the table without a doodle. It was spotless. Not even a hint of permanent marker remained of the ages-old scribble left by a sneaky toddler.

Castiel leaned forward, a small smile creeping across his face. “I must say, I never thought cleaning the drawings off that table would be possible.”

Dean preened under the praise, allowing a deep inhale to puff him up as he gave each and every remaining mark a death glare.  _ You’re next, bitch,  _ it told them. Maybe he would finish them all off tonight. Or maybe he would make them wait in suspense for the fate that would quite literally wipe them off the face of the earth.

“Where’s Hannah? She’s gotta see this,” Dean said, standing up abruptly, much to the displeasure of his back. He grunted softly as he steadied himself, looking this way and that before settling back on Castiel, whose eyes communicated a teetering between longsuffering and sick-of-Dean’s-shit.

“She will see it in the morning,” Castiel assured him. “Since you have plenty of time left, I can show you how to manage the —”

“Aha,” Dean interjected, pointing a finger. “You don’t want me around her. Why is that, Giles?”

The librarian sighed. “That is not my name.”

“You jealous or something? Huh?” At this point Dean couldn’t believe what was flying out of his mouth but screw it. He just defeated a permanent marker stain in combat. He was high on winner fumes… and possibly old Sharpie fumes, but that was beside the point.

Instead of stammering out something pathetic and confessing his undying love, Castiel stifled a laugh behind his hand. Not just a blowing-air-through-his-nose laugh; no, this was a deep-gutted, full-bodied guffaw, barely contained by a firm palm over his mouth and sheer willpower. The snort got caught in his throat, and he looked away, recovering from its unexpected burst in a cluster of light giggles.

Dean furrowed his brows, wondering what could possibly be so funny. He had just uncovered his admirer’s greatest secret! Castiel’s hidden feelings had been exposed like tabloid gossip. Dean had him cornered, and  _ this  _ was how he responded?

“No,” Castiel choked out. He ran a hand over his mouth and down his stupid Bug’s Bunny tie, taking a cleansing breath as his chuckling eventually died down. “I am not jealous, Dean. Hannah is just… not the most attentive to people’s motives. She probably doesn’t even realize what you’re doing.”

“Oh,” Dean puffed, letting it settle for a second. “I can be more straightforward. I just don’t want to make her uncomfort—”

“She’s married, Dean.”

The words fell on him like a ton of bricks. He lost all control of his facial muscles, his eyes falling into a lifeless stare and his mouth dropped open. Was that record scratch sound effect only in his head? 

Married. Hannah was  _ married? _

“Uh, um,” he mumbled, if nothing else than to fill the uncomfortable silence with something, anything. Cognizance slowly returned to his eyes as he blinked at Castiel, who was patiently standing by with his arms crossed.

Dean reached far into the recesses of his mind, the part that remembered details about people in passing. He thought about places someone might wear jewelry. She wasn’t wearing any if his memory served him correctly. Not even a ring. He thought harder. Hands taking the book, scanning it, giving it back to him… Nope, definitely no ring…

Castiel glanced down to Dean, who was subconsciously thumbing over his ring finger in deep thought. “She and her spouse decided to forego traditional wedding bands. Instead, they spent the money traveling abroad to assist in building schools in underdeveloped countries.”

“Wow, that’s… That’s badass.”

“She is,” Castiel agreed, unfolding his arms to slip his hands into his pockets. “And as I said, sometimes unsuspecting of the advances of interested parties. You are certainly not the first to be taken by her gentle spirit.”

Dean held up his hands in surrender. “Case made. No more flirting with Bob the Builder over there.”

“I suppose you’ll have to find someone else to flirt with.”

The words were quick and quiet, but dripping with intent. Dean caught onto them immediately, eyes darting up before Castiel could put out the fire behind his own gaze. And  _ there  _ it was. Castiel looked so keenly at him, their bodies felt mere inches apart, not feet. It was a look that took Dean’s breath away, but after a single overwhelming second, Castiel looked at the floor, breaking the contact that bordered on the edge of physical.

The sensation of being closer than they actually were was abruptly severed. Dean exhaled sharply in displeasure, and wishing for the feeling to return, took the tiniest of steps forward. Castiel squared his shoulders, an automatic response to someone coming towards him, even if it was by an inch. Was making himself seem bigger an old apex predator response, manifesting itself in fight-or-flight? It was possible. 

Or maybe this was something much, much older. In the animal kingdom, some species have a different motive for broadening themselves. It was a practice so primordial, Castiel likely didn’t even realize what he was doing. For a peacock, it was displaying his tail feathers. For a buck, it was chasing a doe. Countless different creatures meant countless mating rituals, but they all had one thing in common.

An interested party was known to work for the attention of another, whether it be from puffing themselves up or coming forward.

Dean felt a flush of red in his cheeks and cleared his throat. Just this tiny bit of space eliminated between them was messing with his head and he needed it to stop. Castiel’s broad chest looked so damn inviting, and coupled with the magnetic pull from stepping a single inch towards him, Dean swore he could already feel the heat radiating off his neck and the smoothness of that awful tie.

“There’s a to-do list behind the circulation desk,” Castiel said, a blessed change in the energy caught between them. “For the comic con. I’ll show you.” With that, he began a leisurely pace to the front, followed by Dean, who was still shell-shocked enough to go along with little resistance.

Once she noticed the well-meaning but clueless head librarian attempting to explain the convention checklist to Dean, Hannah came to the rescue. Castiel seemed grateful, excusing himself ungracefully from behind the desk. It left Hannah doing what Hannah did best. After a solid hour of her explaining the ins and outs of what exactly was going down in a month, Dean found himself staring at a storage room full of fold-up tables and nerdy props, absorbing the info dump he just experienced.

“How about I get you to map out the vendor tables next week?” she asked in conclusion. “Don’t worry about starting anything tonight. Your time is almost up, anyway.”

“Oh, uh,” Dean piped up, glancing down at the time on his phone. “I just gotta finish one thing, then I’ll be out.”

Hannah said something in reply before she headed back to her original task. Dean wasn’t listening to what variant of “Ok, great” it was, as his mind had already tuned her out. He had no more thinking room after confronting two immense truths that night: Planning a nerd fest was a lot of work, and that  _ thing  _ he felt for Castiel was not hate.

His last few minutes at the library were spent quietly scrubbing permanent ink out of the activity table. Riding home, he tried to push down the scarier of the two truths to make more room for comic con thoughts. He had so much to do between now and next month, and he couldn’t waste brain space overthinking what he felt when he and Castiel looked at each other.

Even so, it was an addicting feeling to entertain. As he petaled home he tried so hard to keep his mind focused on the con. As he climbed three flights of steps to get into his apartment his thoughts kept wandering. He walked right past the fridge and its full shelves of beer, brushing his teeth and stripping into underwear before collapsing into bed. He laid there, staring at the ceiling, at war with himself, wondering what it all meant.

What did it mean when he missed the pull of Castiel’s gaze so badly that he took a step forward to compensate? He didn’t mean to; it just sort of happened. As did Castiel’s reflexive response. What was up with that? It was barely detectable. The casual observer wouldn’t have picked up on it.

And yet, Dean noticed. Because he noticed everything about Castiel. He saw how his lips parted slightly when unspoken words hung between them. He noticed Castiel’s knuckles, red from paper cuts and knuckles calloused from holding a pencil. He saw the hesitance in his gait when a patron asked for his assistance after he reached his daily social fill. 

Even worse, he knew why he didn’t want to think about what it all meant. On any other night, Dean would have slumped onto the couch with an entire six-pack and blabbered contradictory things to his roomie. He did those things because he didn’t want to think. He wanted his mind to be numb; he wanted to be able to tell it what to think, even when it didn’t make any sense. He wanted to be able to tell himself lies that he would believe, simply because he was too drunk to correct himself.

But tonight, he didn’t want to tell himself what to think. Against everything inside of him that screamed to think about the comic con instead, he knew. He wanted to ponder the scarier of the two truths. And by walking past the fridge and allowing his mind to think without the fog of alcohol, he was letting it happen.

He laid awake, staring into black nothingness, and he thought.


	7. The One Where Dean Downloads a Dating App

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hell-bent on getting his mind off Castiel and proving a point to Sam and Eileen, Dean delves into online dating.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen to [You’re the One That I Want](https://youtu.be/e__Pp4FxsjU)

Not much could top eating at Zaxby’s with Sam on a Wednesday night, but having Eileen tag along just might’ve taken the cake. Dean signed to her a little, but he still sucked in comparison to his brother. Thankfully, Eileen could read lips.

“You two should dress up for the comic con,” Dean suggested as he dusted his fry seasoning-coated hands on his shorts. “They’re having a group costume contest.”

“I think they call it ‘cosplay’ at cons,” Sam said. He speared a forkful of salad. “And who would we go as?”

Dean shrugged. “Anything, man. It makes Halloween look like amateur hour. Wanna be a ninja for Halloween? Pssh,” he rasped. “At St. John’s Annual Comic Con, you’re an obscurely specific ninja from that one show that exactly ninety people know about, and eighty eight of them are at the con.”

_ We could be Gomez and Morticia Addams,  _ Eileen signed to Sam.

_ Han Solo and Princess Leia,  _ Sam counter-offered.

“Since when are you a Star Wars geek?” Dean questioned, watching their hands go.

“You understood that?” Sam asked, both surprised and proud.

“Dude, I know the friggin’ alphabet. I can spell out names.”

“To answer your question, it’s a comic con. Everyone is a Star Wars geek there.”

“Except Trekkies,” Dean corrected, raising an index finger before using it to pick up another fry. “And for the love of all that is holy, do not get them mixed up. Not where the nerds are at their most powerful.”

“You can’t fault them for finding safety in numbers,” Eileen pointed out verbally. 

“Oh, hold up. I’ve been practicing for this one,” Dean remembered. After shaking out the jitters and wiggling his fingers, he began to sign to Eileen.  _ Sam said your date went well. _

Eileen smiled with a relaxed laugh.  _ Yes. Sam is a sweetheart. _

“Aww,” Dean teased in Sam’s direction, who looked down to hide a light blush on his cheeks. “When is date number two?”

“We’re taking things slow,” Sam supplied.

_ Does this count?  _ Eileen signed in jest.

“What’d she say?” Dean asked.

“She said you can chaperone our dates anytime,” Sam said shortly before Eileen gave his arm a playful shove.

_ It would be cool to have a double date,  _ Eileen signed with a reluctant shrug.  _ Too bad Dean isn’t seeing anyone. _

Sam raised a brow and both of them slowly turned to face the third wheel. Dean didn’t miss the expectancy radiating off of them, and although he wasn’t advanced enough to catch some of the words, he got the basic gist. “I am a whole person on my own, thank you very much.”

“What happened to the librarian guy?” Sam pried.

Dean scoffed, reeling back like it was the most left-field direction the conversation could have gone. “What about him? He’s,” Dean paused to glance down at his plate’s fascinating dusting of fry seasoning, “he’s just… busy.”

_ Busy, but not uninterested?  _ Eileen signed slowly.

Dean shrugged. “If he was interested, he would have done something about it by now.”

“Not necessarily,” Sam said.

_ Yeah,  _ Eileen agreed.  _ He might be playing hard to get. _

“If both of them are playing hard to get, it’s no wonder they’re still sitting around twiddling their thumbs.”

“I’m not playing anything,” Dean challenged, pulling his phone out of his back pocket. “Look, see. This is me, not playing hard to get.” He tapped his way into the app store, typed a few letters, and pressed install before turning his phone around to face Sam and Eileen. 

“A dating app?” Sam stated vacantly. “Seriously?”

“What? It’s a free trial.”

Sam ran his palm over his face. “That’s… That’s not —”

_ Don’t worry about it,  _ Eileen signed to him.  _ I’ve had to kiss a few frogs, myself. _

“I’m almost ninety percent sure you just said something about a frog,” Dean said with furrowed brows, intently watching Eileen’s hands before glancing back up at Sam. “Or was it ‘duck’? The other ten percent is definitely thinking duck.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Sam dismissed with a barely contained smile. “Hey uh, we should go get ice cream.”

“Of course you’re still hungry. All you ate was a bunch of glorified grass.” Dean crumbled a napkin in his fist, blinked, and dropped it onto his plate as he glared at Eileen. “Wait a second. Did you say something about  _ kissing  _ a  _ frog _ ?” He signed for those two words alone. “Like, talking about  _ me  _ kissing frogs?”

Eileen signed with a distinct amount of sass,  _ I wasn’t talking to you. _

“Oh hell no,” Dean grumbled. “I might not be fluent in sign language, but that doesn’t get you out of this conversation —”

Eileen closed her eyes.

“Sam? Sam,” Dean grunted, but his brother was doubled over laughing. There Eileen sat, ignoring his existence while Sam made zero attempts to keep her in check. Couple of hard-heads. Surely the world was not ready for this duo. Dean definitely wasn’t.

After Sam settled down, Eileen opened her eyes to see Dean sigh in defeat.  _ Ice cream sounds great. I have sundae toppings. _

Dean hadn’t learned those words yet, but it looked a lot like she was talking about having whipped cream and sprinkles at her place. His eyes bounced between them with a raised brow. “Y’know what? I’m just gonna assume I’m suddenly uninvited. You kids have fun.”

“Mind, gutter,” Sam said in exasperation. “I told you, we’re taking things slow.”

“Uh huh.”

_ Dean’s not coming,  _ Sam signed to Eileen.  _ He’s too busy tonight sending strangers naked pictures of himself. _

“Aha,” Dean declared, jumping to a conclusion about Sam’s use of the word  _ naked.  _ “Food play. I friggin’ called it.”

Sam made a noise that sounded more frustrated than disgusted. “Well, this was fun. But —”

“Hey, I don’t kink shame.”

“— I think we should all be going.”

Dean raised both brows and cocked his head, giving Sam a presumptuous stare-down. His brother did not yield to it, smiling at Eileen instead and ushering them out of the booth. Dean sat in the backseat on the way back to the apartment and set up his dating account. 

Dean Winchester, 35. New in town. Bisexual. By the time they got home he was fully engrossed in the app, scrolling away on an endless sea of people looking to meet people.

He waved at Sam and Eileen as they disappeared into the unit across the hall and let himself into his own. He had finally unpacked everything — mostly — and the only downside was that it was now possible to make a mess of the place. The kitchen sink was piled high with dishes, which was the  _ real  _ reason he suggested a fast food dinner. He had successfully avoided doing the dishes for one more day, so he called it a win and kicked off his shoes. They landed on opposite sides of the room, in contrast to Bee’s neatly arranged work boots by the door.

Dean slumped onto the couch, turning the tv on for noise but settling back into his phone. It was questionable, resorting to online dating when a tall glass of water like Castiel was within biking distance. He saw the guy every week, so he knew he was real, which was more than Dean could say about any given number of people on that dating app. However, he was on there to prove a point, to Eileen most of all.

_ Kissing frogs.  _ He’d show her. This was no longer about choosing someone else to distract him from Castiel. This was about pride. Honor. By comic con day, he’d have someone to double date with Sam and Eileen, alright. Their jaws would drop, and Castiel would wish he had never ran away when their eyes first met between bookshelves.

He heard the distant sound of a window closing, followed by the slightly closer sound of a door opening. Bee was in from her nightly toke but Dean didn’t look up from his phone.

“This place is gross,” she said flatly as she dragged her bean bag chair in front of the couch. She winced as she touched her lower back and plopped down.

Dean shrugged. “It’s just the dishes.”

“And the mud from your shoes, and the gunk from your electric razor, and the trash…”

“Yeah, okay,” he conceded bitterly. “So let’s clean it.”

“Let’s? As in ‘let us’? I cleaned all those things last week.”

Dean’s eyes darted around the living room. He did suppose those things were magically tidy exactly seven days ago. But he wasn’t in the mood to clean. To be fair, he never was, and if he ever did pull his weight as a fair roommate and put in some elbow grease, he would do it with moderate to severe complaining.

“Please, Bee? I’ll… buy you a Zeppelin album.”

“I have them all,” she answered, glancing back at the stereo system in the corner. “Speaking of which, I wanna listen to something.”

“Fine,” Dean agreed, turning the TV off. The living room space was compact but quaint. Dean’s sofa was the only large piece of furniture in the room, not including the television set atop a tall, narrow dresser they used to store movies and records. Other than the bulbs on the ceiling fan, they kept a lamp by the stereo system. After Dean kicked her off the couch in his sleep one night, she dragged her bean bag chair out from her room, placing it between the couch and the stereo in the corner. 

Bee selected Led Zeppelin’s debut album from under the tv and took it to the turntable. “I’ve never seen you stare at your phone for so long. Something interesting going on I should know about before the come-up hits and I’m too high to care?” She placed the record on side 1 and turned the system on.

“It’s a dating app,” Dean replied, still engrossed in the men and women crossing his screen.

Bee gave a semi-tired blink before dropping the needle. “Wait. You’re on a dating app?”

“For realsies.”

The first two notes of Good Times, Bad Times boomed through the speakers. The next two followed, introducing the rock ditty that introduced the world to Zeppelin’s first album. “And what does your boy Castiel think of this?”

Dean dropped the phone in his lap with a huff and an eye roll. “You sound like Sam. Look, he’s hot, alright? But so is,” he paused to peek back at his screen, “Alaina Huffman. And she probably doesn’t celebrate obscure holidays.”

“You like him, though,” Bee said, her voice lilting slightly as the head high began to take effect. “Why you tryn’ta date other people if you like him?”

He didn’t know how to answer that, so he just locked his phone and dropped it beside him. There was no doubt in his mind that Bee would listen if he really wanted to spill his guts, but he was far too sober for that and too stubborn to resort to alcohol. After a whole night of thinking clearly about Castiel, he found that he enjoyed it, even if those thoughts left him riled up and confused.

“Hey Bee,” he asked after the second song began. “Why do you smoke?”

She sat still for a moment, and Dean wondered if maybe he was asking something too personal. They had known each other for less than thirty days, and although there were times it felt more like thirty years, reality would occasionally hit them again. This was one of those times.

“Nevermind,” Dean amended with a dismissive wave. “It’s none of my —”

“Have you ever worked on cars, Mr. Dubs?” She took her time standing up, and Dean couldn’t outright tell whether she was using the question to answer him or change the subject. When he shook his head, she gave the spinning record a small smile and turned up the volume just a little bit. “You oughta come out to the garage one day. Who knows, maybe you’ll dig it.”

Dean gave a thoughtful pout. “I guess I could swing by on my way home.”

“Nah, dude. Make a day of it.” Bee crouched back onto her bean bag. “Call in sick tomorrow.”

“What? No.”

“C’mon. It’ll be fun.”

“You get the worst ideas when you’re high.”

“It’s not a bad idea,” she insisted, now bobbing her head to the slow, easy beat of You Shook Me. “If you hate plumbing so much, try some other stuff out. You might love it, you might not. You can at least say you tried.”

“I guess,” Dean admitted. “But I’m not riding on that high-speed deathtrap of yours.”

Bee laughed. “It’s too far for you to ride on that bicycle. And I am a very safe motorcycle driver, thank you very much. I’ll even go the speed limit while you’re with me.”

Dean opened his maps app. “Where did you say this place was again?”

“Rainbow Motors on Lawrence Street.”

After finding Bee’s repair shop and assessing that it would, in fact, be an unnecessarily long drive without an engine, Dean opened his Uber app. “I’ve got some sick time, come to think of it.”

“That’s the spirit. Be ready to go at 7:30 tomorrow morning. Wear something you don’t mind getting ruined. I have an extra helmet.”

Dean laughed in opposition. “Oh, I’m not getting on that thing. I’m paying someone else to tote me there… in a car.”

“Alright, fine,” Bee sighed. “But I’ll get you on it eventually.”

“Nope. Never.”

Bee smiled. “Damn, you jinxed yourself now.”

“What—”

“Shh,” she shushed him as Dazed and Confused eased into earshot. “This is my favorite song to listen to when I’m high.”

Dean sat quietly as Jones and Page’s unassuming first notes paved the way for Plant’s soulful voice. Not wanting to intrude on her time with the music, Dean picked up his phone and headed for bed, stopping to brush his teeth on the way. He took his time for once, flossing and gargling for good measure, because why the hell not. 

By the time he made it to his bedroom he was so squeaky clean, not a soul on that dating app would be able to resist him, even through a phone. He laid under the covers with his thumb hovering over the message option for a cute guy named Aaron, whose bio said,  _ My last boyfriend dumped me for religious reasons. He worshipped money and I didn’t have any. #kippahingitreal _

“He sounds funny… and Jewish,” Dean muttered to himself. “I’ve never dated a Jewish guy.”

It took him ten whole minutes to sack up and send Aaron a message, during which time the muffled sound of music in the living room died out, replaced by nothing but silence. Bee hadn’t bothered with side 2, and either passed out on the bean bag or mosied quietly into her room. Dean typed up a quick “hey”, but hesitated to send something so short, as it might come across as thoughtless.

Resorting to the wonderful world of Google, he set out to find the perfect opening line. Most of them were corny at best and trash at worst. What normal person asks for two truths and a lie, or what GIF best describes them? The more Dean thought about it, the more appealing one word sounded. He typed out “hey handsome” and pressed send, hoping the classy title would catch Aaron’s attention.

While he waited for a reply, a new message came in from some chick named Lydia. “You’re hot,” the message said, along with the fire emoji. It was a bit forward, but Dean basked in the ego boost and settled right into the tone of this conversation.

**To Lydia:** **_I’m not the only one ;)_ **

**From Lydia:** **_Cute, haha. What are you up to?_ **

**To Lydia:** **_Nothing much. Just in bed_ **

**From Lydia:** **_All alone? Sad :(_ **

Dean smirked, a little taken aback by how flirtatious this dialogue was, and how opposite it was to anything he had experienced with Castiel. The guy was an enigma wrapped in a mystery, as opposed to Lydia, whose motive was not difficult to spot. Dean was still deciding on a reply when Aaron messaged him back.

**From Aaron:** **_Um wow, to what do I owe the pleasure?_ **

**To Aaron:** **_Saw it, liked it, want it_ **

**From Aaron:** **_Got it ;)_ **

How was everyone on this app so goddamn smooth? Dean toggled back over to Lydia’s messages when he got another notification from her.

**From Lydia:** **_I’m alone too :/_ **

**To Lydia:** **_Pretty thing like you? It’s a crime to humanity_ **

**From Lydia:** **_Life is so unfair, you know?_ **

**From Lydia:** **_I’m soooo horny rn_ **

Dean put that thought on pause to text Aaron back.

**To Aaron:** **_You doing anything this weekend?_ **

**From Aaron:** **_Nothing I can’t cancel haha_ **

It wasn’t every day Dean had to think on his feet about planning a hookup. How brazen was it to invite someone directly into his apartment? Damn, and the place was a pig-sty, too. Dean thought about it while he and Lydia went back and forth some more.

**To Lydia:** **_Well I’d love to help out with that, but I’m in for the night lol_ **

**From Lydia:** **_You can still help_ **

**From Lydia:** **_What are you wearing_ **

Dean turned his phone’s flashlight on briefly, just long enough to refresh his memory. His underwear prints took a back burner after so long without anyone else seeing them. 

**To Lydia:** **_hot dog boxer briefs_ **

**From Lydia:** **_LMAO_ **

**From Lydia:** **_omg hahahahaa_ **

**From Lydia:** **_Can I see?? :)_ **

Dean’s eyes opened a little wider at the request, a playful smirk crawling across his cheek. He couldn’t remember the last time he sexted, much less with pictures involved. Lydia would surely expect him to take some time with this, so he took the opportunity to toggle back to Aaron.

**To Aaron:** **_My place this Saturday at 7pm?_ **

**From Aaron:** **_Far out. Can’t wait to see you_ **

**To Aaron:** **_You can see me right now if you want… at least, parts of me ;)_ **

He slipped out of bed to turn his overhead light on, preparing himself for the photo. By now it was sufficiently obvious that she didn’t want to be wined and dined, so he had to make this good. It was going to be difficult getting the angle right. Should he get hard? By the sound of her texts, she would probably appreciate it.

A soft groan rumbled in his throat as he palmed at himself. His body reacted to the stimulation, his erection filling the front of his boxer briefs. He slipped his hand under his waistband, curling his fingers around his shaft to bring himself to full hardness. After holding his phone in selfie mode at several failing angles, he fell backwards onto the bed and held the phone directly above himself, snapping a photo.

He reviewed it. Honestly, not a bad shot. The whole process had taken longer than he would have liked, but the deed was done, so he sent Lydia the photo and waited in silence. As the seconds dragged on he grew anxious. Did she hate it? Was it not what she expected?

Dean went to his messages to Aaron to see a lack of reply to the suggestion of a picture. Did that mean he was okay with it? He didn’t say no. He had plenty of time to say no. Did that mean he was waiting for Dean to send it? Online dating was hard. Dean stopped overthinking and sent the photo to Aaron as well. A minute later, Lydia finally got back with him.

**From Lydia:** **_Your bio says you’re bisexual_ **

**To Lydia:** **_Yes I am_ **

**To Lydia:** **_Did you get the pic?_ **

**From Lydia:** **_So the thing is, my husband and I have been looking for a third person_ **

Dean made a gagging sound and rolled his eyes so far back he might have strained a tendon. “Friggin’ unicorn hunters,” he spat, closing out the app and heatedly getting up to turn off the light. He smacked the switch down and swore as he rammed into his bedside table in the pitch dark.

His thigh would be bruised in the morning, but that wasn’t high on his list of concerns. He set an alarm and tossed and turned a few times before finding a comfortable position. If he wanted to see what it was like to work on cars, he needed to relax enough to fall asleep. No doubt it was physically tolling; he had to be ready for a hard day’s work.

And who else would his mind wander to at a time like this, than Castiel. Dean took a cleansing breath as he thought of the peculiar librarian, so distant, and yet one gaze between them made it feel like he was physically in Dean’s lap. As difficult of a man he was, Castiel would have never toyed with his mind, only to propose he and another toy with Dean’s body, then moving on with their lives like he wasn’t a person with feelings and a soul.

Castiel might have been an ass, but he wasn’t cruel. He wouldn’t treat him like Lydia just had. Would he?

Dean turned on his side once more. Truth was, he didn’t know. But from what little he could gather about cryptic, aloof Castiel, the man wasn’t changing his quirks for anyone, he had a certain softness under that protective, selectively-social outer shell, and he was queer as hell.

Just those three things shone like a beacon in the night to explain Dean’s fascination with him. Each thing called out to him in its own unique way. Yet somehow, he was afraid to face his own allure to it all. Perhaps that was why he couldn’t pry his eyes away from his screen all night. It was too terrible to think that something so magnetic that called to him from the depths of his soul should fail. 

Dean reached for his phone in the dark, making a few empty grasps among the sheets before finding it and turning on the flashlight again. He pointed it toward his bedside table, where the thick book of Vonnegut novels laid. He opened it to where he left off last, his phone his only light, and didn’t turn it off until he found himself nodding off to sleep.


	8. The One Where Dean Reads for Storytime

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a day at the auto shop that ends in mixed emotions, Dean is recruited for an innocent library task that will surely result in an attractively enraged Castiel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case the time notes don't make it obvious, this chapter is told non-lineally. It flip-flops between the scene at Rainbow Motors and Library Storytime, which happen three weeks apart from each other. At the very end, we see how one leads into the other. 
> 
> Listen to [Satisfaction](https://youtu.be/MSSxnv1_J2g)

It had been exactly three weeks and two hours since Dean arrived at Rainbow Motors Auto Shop. Being away from his own workspace had been refreshing. Bee was right: It gave him all sorts of ideas.

Oh, did it give him ideas.

Now, three weeks and two hours later, he was sitting on a padded chair, surrounded by young, expectant eyes. In his lap lay a book, which the captive audience eagerly awaited him to open. He felt like a king. He held all the power in his hands. 

A dozen or so feet away sat at least one parent or guardian of each child. They were seated comfortably at a table, thrilled for the chance at a conversation that might exclude subjects like children’s shows and nursery rhymes. They mostly ignored the children and storyteller, content to leave them to their devices as they chatted with the same people they saw every week at that exact time.

It was ten o’clock in the morning on Thursday. On any other Thursday, Dean would be repairing a flooded crawl space while daydreaming of what menial task awaited him at the library that night. His days of wondering were no more. Today, he was the ruler of storytime. Today, he had eleven toddlers eagerly awaiting a riveting tale of epic proportions.

And oh, was he going to give it to them.

An energetic three-year-old rolled across the floor to him and pulled herself to her feet. She never took her pinkie out of her mouth from the time she began to tumble to the end of her sentence. “Mistur Dean, what story are you reading?”

Dean smiled at the little girl, glancing down at the book in his lap before replying. 

* * *

_ ~Three weeks, one hour and fifty minutes ago~ _

His Uber driver dropped him off around the back of the auto shop, per Bee’s instruction, and he arrived in time to see her roll into the yard on her ride of terror. It rumbled low and threatening with far too much horsepower than he could justify for a two-wheeled vehicle with no walls. He would stick with cars, thank you very much.

The sound of her arrival didn’t phase the few busy workers already there. Dean could spot three from where he stood, all men in various stages of preparation for the day ahead. One twirled a car key in his hand by its keyring, heading for an early 2000s Toyota Corolla parked right outside the garage. Inside it, two others lowered a Jeep from the auto lift.

As his Uber drove off, Dean could suddenly feel just how out of his element he was. He took a couple of side steps towards Bee, who had long since dismounted and placed her helmet on the seat. The gravel crunched beneath his feet, and to him, it sounded unnervingly loud against the relative quiet of a repair shop just starting up their day.

“Ready?” she asked, to which he glanced over and gave the most poised, confident nod he could gather. If she could tell how nervous he was, she was mercifully leaving it undiscussed. “We’ve got fresh meat starting today, so that will distract most of their attention.”

“You say that like they’re a bunch of friggin’ sharks,” Dean said as they began walking towards the garage.

“Small business like this, people tend to create their own drama. You’ll be okay, just stick with me.”

It was an incredibly ominous way to start his day, but he tucked it into the back of his mind and squared up. Screw it, he could have spent the day knee-deep in actual shit; what was a little workplace drama in comparison? Bring it, Rainbow Motors.

“Who’s this?” one of the men lowering the Jeep inquired. He was barely an inch shorter than Dean and had dark eyes and skin, with facial hair on his chin and above his lip.

“He’s with me, Victor,” Bee said flatly, offering no room for argument.

The other one in the garage spoke up, a fair-skinned, light-eyed man who looked like he desperately wanted to be as tall and able to manage a goatee as Victor, but failed miserably and had a complex about it. “He the new kid?”

Victor shot him a silencing glare. “Cole —”

“I said he’s with me,” Bee repeated herself impatiently, after which Cole finally got the hint. He kept his mouth shut as he got back to work, eyes fixed on the Jeep that was now at ground level and ready to be taken off the lift arms.

The third man didn’t make a sound during the exchange, but he did eye Dean with a wolfish glare. He twirled the key around, waiting for one of his workmates to move the Jeep out of the way so he could drive the Toyota into the garage. Dean looked back at him after the scuffle between Bee and the boys, and the man gave him a cheeky wink.

Dean whipped his head forward, taking wider steps that took him away from the clean-cut, brown-haired man by the Toyota and closer to the only familiar person in the vicinity. Bee walked past Victor and Cole and Dean followed, minding the occasional tire or breaker bar on the floor. He didn’t glance back to see if the man was still staring at him, although he could probably guess.

It didn’t make him uncomfortable knowing someone was looking at him. He just didn’t expect to start out the day getting checked out, and he wasn’t confident in his ability to toggle between educating himself on the inner workings of an auto shop while eye-fucking with Brown Eyes out there. He was attractive, that much was for sure. If Dean wanted to absorb any mechanical knowledge at all, he needed to stay away from the guy.

* * *

“It’s a surprise,” Dean answered the eager little girl awaiting storytime. As she returned to her seat, he looked up to see none other than Castiel watching from between two rows in adult nonfiction. His outfit matched the mauves, ivories, and emeralds making up the book spines surrounding him, like a creature in his natural habitat. Their gazes met for just a moment, but Dean’s eyes lingered even after the librarian looked down to straighten a shelf.

The split second of connection between them took Dean’s breath away. Even in the wake of it, with Castiel’s eyes cast downwards to adjust a wire bookend, Dean felt its intensity. It reached past skin, muscle, and bone, tugging at his heart and filling his soul with something rousing. It stayed with him throughout the week, consuming his mind with a million thoughts of what it could be.

Dean thought about those split seconds until he fell asleep. They were the first things he thought of when he woke up the next morning. His annoyance with Castiel and his stupid clothes and perfect face melted into another thing entirely after the acknowledgment of what it  _ probably was  _ crossed his mind. And it should have made Dean even more pissed, but by then he was so damn tired of it all that he relented.

All too often, when Dean reminded himself that what he was feeling for Castiel was not hate, that rather than anger, he felt only a dull ache. Like his heart wanted to lash out but instead caved in on itself under the weight of every thought and emotion directed at the devastatingly handsome librarian. Dean was weary with it. 

And he was drunk on it.

Every time he showed his face at the library he knew that one look at Castiel would send him spiraling again. Yet he kept going back like a dog to his vomit, unable to stop himself. He needed to look at Castiel like he was the drug of choice for Dean’s desperate eyes. He loved and hated what it did to him. He needed to feel it again. And again, and again.

But even so, there was one thing Dean loved more than that spark a split second of eye contact could give. He was a terrible person for it, but he wasn’t sorry. It made his heart beat fast and his lungs fill with laughter. That one thing was seeing Castiel as a discomposed mess. It was such a beautiful sight it had to be illegal in at least ten countries. Dean hadn’t done much traveling, but he was sure it was true.

He opened the book on his lap and smiled at the restless children. He looked at the parents, all too preoccupied with talk of bullet journaling and essential oils to give him much notice. The carpet absorbed the toddlers’ playful pre-storytime squeals. The rest of the library patrons carried on quietly at their respective reading nooks and charging stations. Castiel himself went about his duties, seemingly unbothered by his brief eye contact with Dean and the group of giggling toddlers.

“Mommy says you’re going to read about a hungry caterpillar,” one of the little boys ventured, clutching onto a plush lamb.

Dean chuckled to himself, glancing down at the pages. “Oh, is that what mommy told you?”

* * *

_ ~Three weeks, one hour and forty minutes ago~ _

“It’s just a new front end,” Cole argued, hand still extended towards the hunk of metal someone dared call a car. “It’ll buff right out.”

“You and I both know I don’t do restorations. And it’s the ugliest effing car I’ve seen in my life.”

“It’s not just a car, Bee. It’s a ‘Stang.”

Bee made a gagging sound. “Could a car  _ be  _ more douchey? Especially the mid-2000s models.”

“Hey, at least it’s not a Prius.”

“I don’t negotiate with terrorists. You like it so much, why don’t you do it?”   
  


“I don’t have time to replace all that. I’ve got state inspections to do!”

Bee made a _ ta-da _ motion. “I rest my case. Later, Jeeves.”

“But… wait! Then who will —?”

Dean and Bee left Cole alone with the Mustang, ignoring any further griping coming from his direction. Even someone unfamiliar with car mechanics could see the car would take quite a bit of time to fix. The bumper was completely gone, plus the hood bent upwards, distorted from the force of whatever crash left it in such disrepair.

“Let’s start out with the basics,” Bee suggested as they made their way to a newer model Chrysler Pacifica sitting where the Toyota was before Cole and Victor finished up with the Jeep. “This sucker is due for a tune-up. Pop the hood for me, will you?”

“You got it, boss,” Dean replied. He found the small lever on the driver’s side without any trouble and pulled it, hearing the distinctive sound of the hood unlatching. He came back around and watched as Bee propped it open and pulled a rolling table closer to her workspace.

She pointed to objects on her table as she spoke. “Sparkplugs, ignition wires, O2 sensors, air and cabin air filters. I ask for the things, you hand me the things. I fix the things.”

Dean arranged the items in the order she said them and nodded. At some point in every part of the tune-up she let him help. By the end his fingers were covered in grease and his lower back was not enjoying the constant strain. He reached around to rub the small of his back with a groan as Bee closed the hood.

“To answer your question, that’s the reason,” she said abruptly.

Dean narrowed his eyes. “What question?”

“Your question last night. You asked why I smoke weed. That,” she paused to nod at his aching back, “is the reason.”

Ah, yes. He did ask that, didn’t he? It all made so much sense now. She did wince every once in a while before her nightly toke took effect, but he never thought the two were correlated. He couldn’t blame her for preferring weed to a medication with side effects potentially worse than her actual pain. 

His face relaxed as the realization dawned on him. Bee wasn’t the stereotypical pothead dead-set on ending each day stoned out of her mind.  _ She was self-medicating. _

* * *

“Alright kids,” Dean announced in his most sun-shiny voice. “Gather ‘round. Today we’re going to read a book about…” He scanned his semi-attentive audience, settling on the little boy with the toy lamb. “...a lamb and his reign of terror.”

The bright-eyed boy gasped and clutched onto his stuffed animal. “Lamb baby is in your book?” he bellowed, drawing the attention of the other children.

“Not just lamb baby,” Dean announced with an assertive index finger extended, “but the rabid bears of the Everglades!” With that, he held up his book,  _ Care Bears: How Does Your Garden Grow? _

The toddlers gasped. The tumbling girl fell onto her back dramatically.

“One night,” he stage-whispered, to which every child on the floor leaned forward in anticipation. “The evil lamb baby decided to sneak up on the bears. He tip-toed all the way to their house. Can you tip-toe?”

The kids all rose to their feet and did their very best tip-toeing, as quiet as could be. Even lamb baby gave an Oscar-worthy performance, with a little help from the little boy who directed his feet. Dean held the book open, pointing to the words as he made up his story.

“Soon he was at the rabid bears’ house, but shh,” he placed a finger to his mouth, “they’re asleep.” Every member of his audience either covered their mouth or mimicked him by putting their finger to their lips. “Lamb baby needs to be very sneaky if he’s going to crawl into their house and bite them.”

“Bite them?” a girl in pigtails whimpered.

“That’s right. Today the bears. Tomorrow… the world.”

One boy with a missing tooth wailed in terror. The others got antsy, jumping in place or flailing their arms to the side.

“All right, everybody sit down,” Dean instructed. Everyone scooted closer as he held up the book and turned the page. “When he crawled into their house, it was very dark. It was  _ so  _ dark, he couldn’t see anything!”

“This is weally scawy,” a toddler whispered to another.

Dean set the book down for a moment, glaring direfully at every wide-eyed child. “Are  _ you  _ afraid of the dark?”

Despite the terror in their eyes, they denied it, shaking their heads vigorously and insisting on all variations of the word no. “Nuh uh,” “Not me,” “Nope,” and “No, Mistur Dean.” Someone in the crowd confessed to using a night light. Dean smirked.

“Everybody close your eyes.”

The children reluctantly obeyed, some lightly closing their eyelids while others went all-out and placed their hands over the top halves of their faces. One of them giggled, albeit nervously, the noise his one anchor to the world devoid of Dean’s rabid bears and evil lamb.

“Everybody’s eyes closed?” 

Of course, the general consensus was yes, but Dean could still see a tiny bit of eyeball on a couple of them. He swallowed a laugh as he glanced over at the parents’ table, only to see that they were just as oblivious to the story as if they were a mile away.

“Put your hands over your eyes, that’s it.” After a bit of coaxing everyone obeyed, now shrouded in darkness and the foreboding tone of Dean’s voice. “Lamb baby sneaked into their room in the pitch dark. They were fast asleep. Very quietly, lamb baby walked over to one of the bears’ beds. His teeth were sharp and ready to bite. So he leaned over the bear’s bed… he opened his mouth wide… and he said…”

He let the silence hang, every child clutching to their own face in suspense. The tension in the room was palpable, enveloping the small space immediately surrounding them and leaving the rest of the library clueless. In the distance, Castiel calmly led a woman to the printer and lifted the scanner.

Dean leaned downward, determined to sound as unsettlingly close as possible while saying the one-syllable word just loud enough to startle them. He blurted it out like a textbook jump-scare.

“Boo.”

The eleven toddlers erupted in high-pitched screams, all control lost to the fright that overtook them. The tumbling girl rolled off of the storytime rug, still covering her eyes. One boy fell onto his back with tears streaming down his face and a snot bubble growing out of one nostril. The one with the stuffed lamb squinted his eyes shut, arms tight around his toy.

It was only now the parents glanced over, if anything slightly annoyed that their grown-up conversations had been interrupted. Clamping his hand over his mouth to control his laughter, Dean scanned the space to see that they had caught the attention of every person in the entire library, including — you guessed it — Castiel.

He stood by the printer, hands still on it but fully focused on the single point in the library that seemed to pull everyone else in: Dean. He glared at him, cheeks red and eyes so wide Dean was sure they’d pop out of his skull. If looks could kill, he’d be a goner, and he’d be in a lot more fear for his life if he could interpret Castiel’s look as anything besides downright hilarious.

  
  


“The bears tried to get away, but lamb baby was too fast,” Dean growled over their lingering cries. “He ripped their throats out, leaving their house covered with blood.”

A girl in the front row began to wail in tears.

“The rabid bears marched into the city with murder in their eyes!”

Another wave of screams rolled through his audience. The boy grasping his stuffed lamb refused to open his eyes. By then the parents were back to their gossip, content with the state of things as long as their children were entertained and within eyesight.

“And then what?” a frightened little girl quivered.

Dean snatched the toy lamb out of the boy’s arms. Shocked, the child’s eyes flew open to behold the treacherous beast that had brought ruin to the bears’ house. “And then! Lamb baby and the rabid bears marched through the town,” he paused to rise to his feet, dropping the book and stretching bowed-legs into exaggerated strides throughout his audience. “And they ate up all the bad little children who are afraid of the dark!” Making aggressive animal noises, he shoved the stuffed lamb onto each of them, causing even more terrorized screeches.

Dean choked on his own spit from the sudden guffaw that rose into his throat. He ran his hand across his face, still holding the lamb with the other as children ran around him crying, screaming, sobbing. One girl ran to her mom, who casually patted her on the back as she attempted to remain in the table’s conversation.

The boy who brought the plush lamb stood frozen in fear as Dean lowered the toy to the boy’s eye level. “You’re next,” he sneered in a sinister voice. The boy broke down wailing, snatching the lamb baby and tossing it into the only nearby trash can. 

The storytime area was complete chaos. Parents were beginning to worry, shooting concerned glances his way and calling their children to the table. One of the toddlers was so disoriented he ran into a support beam, knocking himself in the head and falling over crying. Most of the children were screaming uncontrollably, egged on further by hearing each other’s cries. It was a madhouse in the fullest sense of the word, and the only thing that made it better was turning around to come face to face with the livid head librarian.

“Dean,” the frazzled, gorgeous man growled with his hands on his hips. “Have you lost your mind?”

But he couldn’t even form words to respond, not when he was laughing so hard that every planned sentence was overtaken by the next laugh flaring up from deep in his gut. He was so far-gone his sides hurt. There were tears in his eyes. Everything about this was so perfect, including the horrified heat in Castiel’s eyes.

The man could have just been chased around the building by a killer clown and he would’ve looked no different. His heavy breathing, the heat radiating off his body — and was that slight sheen on his hairline a drop of sweat? — it was breathtaking. Everything about his demeanor contrasted with his flawlessly composed presentation.

_ Nothing  _ about Castiel was calm. He was fucking  _ wrecked.  _ The only thing that could make him more beautiful was if he ran his fingers through his —

“Hannah, please get this situation under control,” he twisted to the side briefly to say. Before he turned back to face Dean he sighed and —  _ sweet Jesus, help him _ — destroyed his pristine hairstyle with a rough comb-through of his fingers. It rumpled under his hand, sticking this way and that. With his hair mussed to match the mood Dean put him in, Castiel looked him square in the eye and took a step forward that took away nearly all the space between them.

The sudden closeness, although exhilarating, was also unexpected. Dean took an instinctive step back, only to collide with the support beam a child had just hit his head on. He grunted in surprise, eyes flying up to meet those fuming, mesmerizing blues. With his body smashed between a beam and mere inches away from Castiel, Dean could do nothing but hold his breath and stare.

Dean had stopped laughing at some point. Probably once Castiel ran his fingers through his no-longer-perfect hair. He couldn’t remember. All he knew was that now, in the middle of the library with Hannah rounding up the rowdy children, he and this man were _ so close,  _ it almost didn’t seem possible. It rendered Dean both terrified and exhilarated.

“A word,” Castiel stated with barely any tone, unnecessary considering their proximity. 

For the first time since Dean began storytime, he wondered if he might be in trouble. He swallowed. “Only one word? I don’t get a whole sentence?”

Castiel tilted his head, visibly taken by surprise with yet another dose of audacity from the impossibility that was Dean Winchester. “You’d be lucky to get a prepositional phrase.”

“That — that doesn’t make any sense.”

“A sentence can stand alone with a subject and verb. Any additional phrasing is frivolous and unnecessary, unless the speaker wishes to adorn their words with something specific and meaningful.”

Castiel’s eyes fell ever so briefly before looking into Dean’s again. Whether the nerdy guy glanced down at his mouth or he just couldn’t sustain eye contact for the duration of the sentence was up for debate, but it left Dean with that dull ache in his chest he felt when he wanted to hate Castiel but just couldn’t. But there was something else, too. A blooming warmth in the wake of his words, like the sunshine urging a morning glory to open to its rays.

What the hell  _ was  _ that? Dean backtracked to the origin of the feeling: Castiel’s odd use of definitions to portray… something. But it sounded an awful lot like a compliment.  _ Wait.  _ Was Castiel  _ flirting  _ with him?

“I’ll be your prepositional phrase any day,” Dean murmured with a playful wink.

Castiel’s eyes opened wider, a deep breath widening his chest and straining his shirt. Dean strained to keep his eyes on the man’s face, wanting nothing more than to see what his body looked like under so much stress and at such a small distance. 

When the quietest groan emanated from Castiel’s throat, Dean thought surely his heart would shoot out of his chest. It was the most sinful sound he had ever heard, one that did things to him that no one ever had. No seedy porn video had gotten such a reaction out of him. Within a second he felt hot everywhere, especially down south, where the distinctive hunger for touch awoke.

“Son of a bitch,” Dean hissed under his breath, because yes,  _ this  _ was what he wanted. This was  _ who  _ he wanted.

* * *

_ ~Three weeks, zero hours and two minutes ago~ _

“Anything else you can do, besides turn a wrench?” the new guy asked Bee as his eyes dropped down to not-her-face.

The men of the shop stopped what they were doing. Cole and Victor looked up from their work on the Toyota. Even the quiet clean-cut guy paused from rolling a tire across the garage. Dean bit his tongue, every instinct within him wanting to smash the guy’s head in, but figuring that if the rest of her workmates were getting so quiet, maybe he should fall in line.

Bee set the full drain pan on the work table that separated her and Dean from the new guy, a greasy blond with a receding hairline. “So let me get this straight, Renny. You show up late to your first day of work, then get right into the objectifying bullshit. Anything else you wanna add?”

Renny smirked. “I could name a few things, Baby.”

Bee stiffened at the term. In the distance, Victor said a faint variation of “Aw, crap” to no one in particular. Dean’s eyes darted between the two as his blood began to boil. It took every ounce of self-control within him to refrain from tearing the guy a new one. But he succeeded. In his heart of hearts, he knew this wasn’t the first time she had faced sexism working at an auto shop. If she had made it this far, it would be pointless for Dean to waste his energy on something she had under control.

In one fluid motion, Bee reached across the table and smashed Renny’s face into the oil pan. “Don’t call me that,” she said flatly.

The combined sounds of metal, sloshing oil, and Renny’s blubbering outcry caused every watching face to grimace, including Dean. He turned to face the rest of the men of the repair shop, who all wore faces that told him this was  _ not  _ the first time Bee had to put an asshole in his place.

“The hell?” Renny roared, spitting oil and rubbing his face. “Psycho bitch!”

“Oh, you wanna see a psycho bitch? I have lighters, I’ll show you a psycho bitch.”

Renny cursed under his breath, stumbling towards the front of the building. The Chrysler and an oil can slowed his trip to his car, and the dark oil dripping down his brows didn’t assist him in the obstacle course. As quickly as he arrived, he was gone.

“I’ll uh,” Dean stammered as Bee wiped her hands on a rag. “I’ll take the pan.” She said nothing in opposition, so he lifted it off the table and carefully took it into the garage, where the shop’s men were minding their business. Bee didn’t follow, instead returning to the car she was working on when Renny showed up.

After setting the pan on the back counter, Dean wiped his fingers off with a nearby rag and looked up to see the clean-cut, brown-haired man who had been looking at him. Dean gave a small smile, to which the man responded with a pleased one.

“You’ll find that she can handle herself quite well,” the man said in a surprising English accent. 

Dean nodded with a small, perhaps slightly nervous chuckle. “I can see that.”

The man extended his hand. “Please, I don’t believe Bee introduced us.”

Dean shook his hand. “Dean.”

“Ketch,” he replied. “And what brings you to this fine establishment?”

“Oh, it’s just,” Dean struggled with a shrug, looking for a word for what this was. What  _ was  _ this, anyway? Playing hooky in the name of finding a new career path? Boredom? “Bring-your-roommate-to-work day, I guess.”

“I see.” Ketch’s countenance fell slightly. “And are you two…?”

Dean’s eyes opened wide in horror. “Oh God, no.”

The man’s shoulders relaxed and his sly smile returned. “What a relief.”

“I don’t think anybody here is her type, anyway.”

Ketch nodded slowly. “And what would your type be, Dean?”

Blinking hard at the flirtation that he definitely should have seen coming, Dean furrowed his brows and pondered. This guy was hot. And British. So why wasn’t he feeling it?

His train of thought derailed when Bee set an empty transmission oil bottle onto the counter. “Break time’s over, boys.”

“Is it?” the British man challenged without taking his eyes off Dean.

“Shut up Ketch, or I’ll tell him your first name.”

The threat was enough to break him out of his trance, and he cleared his throat before heading through the door that led to the front of the shop. His absence left Bee and Dean at the counter, where he couldn’t decide which direction to take the conversation.

Victor and Cole were back to business as usual. Their mannerisms suggested they were in no danger of getting their faces smeared into a grease pan, but that the understanding hung in the air that Bee was not one to be trifled with. This was not an isolated incident, then. It was no wonder the boys got so quiet when Renny barged in an hour late, blew her off, and called her Baby.

Speaking of a piece of shit, Dean was starting to feel the effects of three cups of coffee. Going in bathrooms that weren’t his grossed him out, plus it was just plain uncomfortable sitting in one stall when someone else could be  _ standing right there _ waiting for him to finish, but he couldn’t avoid it at this point.

“Be right back,” he muttered, then disappeared to the front of the shop. The room was plain, but comfortingly so; a testament to the team’s dedication to frills out back where it mattered, not inside. When one walked in through the front doors, they would see the check-out counter to their right and a waiting area to their left. On a worn coffee table sat a few magazines of various interests, and an old tv sat in the corner with the volume on low. Behind the counter was the one bathroom stall and beyond that the back door through which Dean came.

He had just taken in the unembellished charm of the place when he heard the sink running from behind the bathroom door. Under a hand-written “Ring for Service” note taped to the counter was a red button, presumably hooked up to a buzzer or similar alert system the team could hear from outside. Dean looked up to see Ketch drying his hands on a paper towel and wandering vaguely in his direction.

“I hope I didn’t keep you waiting,” he offered with a brief glance back.

Dean was almost positive Ketch meant the bathroom, but his words and face were saying two completely different things. “Actually,” he said with the welcomed boldness that came with being alone at last, “the timing is pretty perfect.”

Ketch flashed a frisky smirk before stepping into Dean’s space, backing him into the front counter and pausing before any part of them touched. “Are you enjoying your time at Rainbow Motors?”

Dean pulled the man flush against him. “I think it’s about to get better.”

Ketch’s lips were on his as soon as the words left his mouth. And holy crap, could the guy kiss. His lips were soft and strong. His hand was on the back of Dean’s neck, keeping him, guiding him. He was doing  _ everything  _ right, and it felt  _ so  _ good; but then, why did it make Dean so sad?

He pushed Ketch away, head swimming with words like  _ no  _ and  _ stop  _ despite every reaction his body was having. Looking past the confused man and ajar bathroom door, he spotted the soap bottle. It was shaped like a frog.

“Frog,” Dean breathed, still clutching to the man’s body.

Ketch blinked. “Beg your pardon?”

Dean dragged his eyes up to Ketch’s lovely brown ones. “A frog,” he repeated before letting go and brushing past him. Leaving the man perplexed and alone, Dean slammed the bathroom door behind him. He looked at the soap dispenser again and sighed, then dug his phone out of his pocket and opened the Uber app.

* * *

_ ~Two weeks, six days, twenty three hours and fourteen minutes ago~ _

Dean bolted up the apartment stairs, paying no mind to the way his breaths burned in his throat. He really did need to get in more cardio. Once on the third floor, he pounded on the door across from his before remembering his neighbor’s special doorbell and pressing it eight times in two seconds.

Eileen’s door flew open, a worried look in her eyes. “Dean?” she said to his weary form. “What’s wrong?”

Dean began signing frantically.  _ He was a frog! He was a frog! _

Eileen signed back.  _ Who? Who’s a frog? _

_ Ketch,  _ he spelled out.  _ I kissed him and he was a frog. Like you said. I don’t want him. It’s Castiel! I want… Castiel. _

Eileen released the tension from her shoulders, understanding washing across her face despite not knowing the full context of who this Ketch fellow was.  _ It’s okay,  _ she started to tell him, but couldn’t finish because he enveloped her small frame in his arms. He let out a cleansing sigh. Apparently, Eileen wasn’t the only one who had kissed a frog or two on her way to her prince. It just took Dean a stupidly long time to realize the truth of it.

After Eileen gave a comforting pat on the back Dean broke the embrace, now grounded enough to make logical choices like  _ not  _ bailing on his roomie in the middle of work. Bee had texted and called him but before this moment he was in no frame of mind to respond. All of this had to happen — sucking Ketch’s face, Ubering the hell out of there, booking it up three flights of stairs, and signing horribly to his deaf neighbor about what an idiot he was — before he could think clearly enough to make a decision about what to do next.

He never did want anyone else. Not really. Other people were just cheap substitutes. 

Dean signed goodbye to Eileen and spent the rest of the day sprawled out on his couch. Yes, he allowed himself to admit it for the first time. He knew what he wanted. He knew  _ who  _ he wanted. Even though the infuriating man wore dumb bow ties and hair product that made his hair too perfect. Even though his sense of humor was weird and he was quirky as hell. It was all so uniquely Castiel. Dean had never met anyone so strange and yet so fascinating.

He wanted every furrowed brow Castiel could conjure at Dean’s obscure pop culture references. Castiel was so damn smart, and yet the slightest left field remark left him utterly lost, and it was endearing. He wanted every sly comment that suggested a flirtation. He wanted the mad twitch in his eye Castiel gave when Dean made a loud noise in his sacred library.

For the first time since Ubering home, Dean checked his phone. The voicemail notification caught his attention and after a couple of taps on the screen, he found that it was from the library. He listened in to hear Hannah asking if, work schedule allowing, he would like to take over storytime in three weeks, as their usual volunteer would be on vacation.

Dean grinned, because oh yes, he would take the storytime slot. Mind surging with images of Castiel at his most irate, Dean chuckled to himself all alone on his couch. He would do storytime, alright. And he would get what he was finally ready to admit he wanted.

  
  



	9. The One Where Dean Hides His Library Book from Sam

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After kissing one's share of frogs, what better way to seduce one's handsome prince than by provoking him to the point of madness?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen to [Have You Ever Needed Someone So Bad](https://youtu.be/uhUPxzp1wk0)

After some masterful coaxing from Hannah, the toddlers were reunited with their parents and mostly quiet. The world around them kept turning, but Dean and Castiel stood motionless by the support beam, the occasional passerby flashing a glance. Dean supposed it was odd to be trapped between a beam and the pissed off head librarian, but he felt their curious eyes and it was kind of a buzz kill.

“We need to go somewhere more private,” Castiel pointed out as he looked behind Dean at one of the people staring. He stepped away, allowing Dean room to move off the support beam, and began to walk towards a quiet corner in the reference section.

“Encyclopedias, how romantic,” Dean muttered under his breath, too quiet for even the librarian’s trained ears to pick up on. They stopped behind one of the shelves facing away from the center of the building. The vast majority of people couldn’t see them from where they stood, unless someone was on the hunt for volume 18 of Encyclopedia Britannica.

Castiel stood a respectable distance from him this time. He crossed his arms disapprovingly, breathing out some of his leftover outburst. His hair was still a mess and showed no signs of being able to be combed back down to the immaculately-arranged style from that morning. It was the one remaining testament to his storytime breakdown.

Dean could also see his outfit clearly. Castiel’s shirt was a crisp maroon and cream gingham button-up paired with jewel-green denim. He wore a lapel pin on his shirt pocket that looked an awful lot like an otter, for what reason Dean couldn’t care less about. All he knew was that Castiel looked good enough to eat and for once he wouldn’t stop himself from thinking about doing just that.

“I believe an apology is in order,” the tetchy man before him stated.

“Ah,” Dean sighed with a casual wave. “All is forgiven.”

Castiel leaned forward slightly, fire returning to his eyes. “An apology from  _ you,  _ Mr. Winchester.”

Crushing his lips together so he wouldn’t smile too much, Dean feigned surprise with a long nod. “Oh, uh. In that case… no.”

“Excuse me?”

“I’m not sorry,” Dean blurted with a breathy laugh. “You saw the kids. They loved it.”

“They will most likely need therapy.”

“They’ll grow up to be horror fans. What a legacy, y’know? The world needs more horror fans. At least, that’s what the Pagemaster led me to believe.”

Castiel ignored the movie reference, likely not understanding it anyway. “You caused a disturbance heard throughout the entire building. Did you not think of the other people attempting to read in peace?”

“The ‘other people’ know that ten o’clock is storytime. You’ve got signs on every door warning them,” Dean retorted, a finger pointed towards the front of the library. “If they don’t like kids making noise, they can wait until eleven or go somewhere else.”

“That is not the point.”

“Then what the hell is the point?”

Castiel exhaled sharply. He looked done,  _ so fucking done,  _ and while Dean liked the look on him, he had stopped fishing for that look long ago. He had already had his fun. Whatever this was, this was real shit. This was a genuine spat between two grown-ass men.

Finally, Castiel caved. “Are you physically incapable of being quiet?”

“For what? So your precious library can be an anechoic chamber, famous for being the quietest place in St. Augustine?” Dean shook his head, throwing his hands up and letting them drop. “It’s not _your_ library, Cas. It’s a public-ass library. It belongs to everyone.”

Castiel’s mouth hung open in the wake of Dean’s words. His face still said  _ how-dare-you _ but he hadn’t cut in yet, and Dean had plenty more to say.

“So I can’t walk from the circulation desk to periodicals without my flip flops squeaking. So friggin’ what? It’s mine too, Cas. It’s a space for me, too.”

He stopped to gauge Castiel’s reaction and found him visibly shaken but rendered speechless. Castiel’s shoulders slumped by a hair, like he was releasing one last bit of rigidity held there. His lips were still parted, like he forgot what it was he was supposed to say to troublemakers like Dean. But his eyes — those spellbinding blues that Dean fell asleep thinking about — had so much to say. It was overwhelming to look at him with so many unsaid words, just like it blew his mind to be in the presence of so many words on his first volunteer day. 

Dean surmised that not even the books within these walls could contain all the words hiding behind those eyes at that moment.

“You said this place is for everyone, didn’t you?” he prodded. Castiel looked down. “Does that include me, Cas? What if I can’t be comfortable here? Huh?”

When Castiel refused to reply or even look back up, Dean lost himself to instinct and grabbed both of the librarian’s arms. The sudden contact jolted Castiel out of the bubble he had imagined and his head snapped up, now eye to eye with Dean and much closer than either had anticipated.

Dean’s breath stopped midstream. One errant movement would nudge their noses together or brush their lips and he hadn’t mentally prepared himself for either. He could feel Castiel’s heat. Their torsos were dangerously close, separated only by the tiny bit of self control Dean had left and each exhale that deflated their chests. Standing this close to him was like standing by a fire. Although warm enough to be cozy, it was also warm enough to melt him into a pliant puddle if he stood too close for too long.

The warmth was gone in an instant as Castiel stepped back, disappearing between two bookshelves. Dean was left alone, motionless and in shock, of himself and the way he could have never guessed that conversation was going to go. Most of all, he was upset at how abruptly Castiel had walked off as if Dean hadn’t just word-vomited a metric fuckton of We-Are-The-World, libraries-are-for-everyone kumbaya crap. 

He released a stale breath and rubbed his face. So much for finding his prince.

* * *

“He hates me,” Dean sniffed.

“I highly doubt that, Mr. ‘Dubs.”

Dean rolled onto his side on the couch, four empty beer cans and a bottle of whiskey littering the floor. Bee sat on her beanbag, her back leaning against the couch as they watched a Who Wants to be a Millionaire rerun. They started out guessing the answers. That was before she got too high and Dean got too drunk to think straight.

“He just walked the hell away,” he whined while making step-motions with his fingers. “Do you think it’s ‘cause I called him out on his bullcrap?”

“I mean,” Bee shrugged, “I think it’s safe to say that not many people have called him out on his bullcrap, if his reaction’s any clue.”

“Hmmph.” The tv contestant was at $500,000. The question looked hard. Did he have any lifelines left? “I kissed Ketch.”

Bee took a second to absorb the information. “And?”

Dean squinted down at her. Three whole weeks went by without him making a peep about his morning at Rainbow Motors. Now he was finally ready to talk about it, and she was just… fine with him kissing random dudes at her work? “What do you mean ‘and’?”

“I figured you two were up to something. Dude, I’m ace, not oblivious.”

“We just… kissed. That was it.”

“So you kissed him and then… left? Wait, is that why you took off without telling me?”

“Yeah, I just,” Dean stammered, waving his hand around like he was trying to wipe himself off the memory. “I didn’t like it, so I made him stop.”

“He didn’t try anything against your will, did he?”

“No! He stopped.”

“Okay.”

They were silent for a few seconds. The contestant got the answer wrong. There would never be another game show host like ol’ Regis. “What would’a you done if I said yes?”

“Made his death look like a workplace accident.”

Shit like that was funny as hell when he was drunk, but Bee wasn’t laughing. Actually, she sounded dead serious. “Wul-damn,” he slurred. “R’mind me ne’er to piss you off.”

“Alright. Hey’a Mr. Dubs?”

“Hmm?”

“Never piss me off.”

Dean snorted, then looked blankly at the credits rolling across the tv screen. “Was I an asshole to Cas?”

“Cas,” Bee echoed. “Since when do you call him ‘Cas’?”

Scrunching up his face in deep thought, Dean stared at the ceiling to sort out his recent memories. “Uh… today, I guess.”

“If you were an asshole, it was with good intentions.”

“Yeah, maybe so. But if he does hate me, I’ll have’ta resort to that stupid ass dating app again.”

“Oh come on, Aaron wasn’t so bad.”

“No,” Dean agreed, then froze. He sat straight up. “What did you say?”

Bee rubbed her temples. “Ah, Christ.”

Dean put his feet on the floor, hands supporting him as he leaned away from the back of the couch. His mind was sloshy with alcohol but he  _ knew  _ like he knew his own name he never told her about any of his matches. “Bee…?”

She clicked a button on the remote. “Let’s watch something else.”

Dean grabbed it out of her hand and tossed it onto the other side of the couch. “Nuh-uh. You got some explainin’ to do. How the hell do you know who that is?”

Bee chuckled to herself. “I was just tryin’ta make you clean the place, man.”

A flush of shock, then anger, then embarrassment washed over Dean. That was like, three flushes in quick succession. Was that what menopause felt like? “You… you catfished me?”

“Okay, when you say it like that it sounds bad.”

“It sounds bad because it  _ is  _ bad, Bee. Oh my God.”

“But it was with good intentions!”

“I thought… But… Aaron wanted to…?”

“I figured if you thought some stud was coming over to screw you, you’d at least pick your hairs off the bathroom sink. It’s nasty, dude.”

Dean stared into space, completely at a loss for words. Aaron didn’t exist. Aaron was never going to come over to pound him into the mattress. Aaron never got his dick pick.

_ His dick pick. _

Dean collapsed onto the floor, suddenly feeling like the last five sips of whiskey and four beers were about to make a guest appearance. “The… the picture!”

“Chill out man, I never saw the picture. As soon as I realized it was loading I deleted the app and aborted the mission. I even took the trash out and did the dishes. You’re welcome.”

“You could’ve seen my peen.”

“Trust me bud, I have zero interest in seeing your peen.”

The upchuck levitating in Dean’s throat slowly settled back down. He was sweating. His sight was blurry. But his virtue remained intact. At least, what was left of it.

He swallowed down the last remnants of his stomach acid and alcohol mixture, then struggled to his feet. “I’m gonna go clean the bathroom sink now.”

* * *

The thick book of Vonnegut novels had proven to be a companion of sorts. Dean was a tiny bit sad when he finished the last page. He was reluctant to take it back, as he had grown attached to the inornate, plastic-wrapped thing. But Sam was returning his sign language books, so Dean knew it was time. It wasn’t like the place wasn’t chock-full of  _ other  _ books. He could always pick out a different one.

Thankfully his hangover hadn’t been all that horrible. He worked most of it off, anyway. Now all he had to do was avoid the head librarian like the plague.

“I’m telling you, Sammy,” he said as they strolled in. “We should start a band. Me on electric guitar. You on the drums.”   
  


“I can’t play the drums,” Sam shot it down. “And since when do you play electric guitar?”

Dean pursed his lips, but shrugged off the ridiculous Sam Logic. “I took guitar lessons a few years ago.”

“Yeah,  _ acoustic  _ guitar, Dean.”

“Eh, it can’t be that different. And what’s the big deal about drums, anyway? You’ve got rhythm. You’ll figure it out.”

“That’s — that’s not how learning an instrument works. Also, who’s on vocals?”

“I’ll take one for the team,” Dean offered.

“Um, I don’t think that’s a great idea.”

“Once we make it big I’ll never have to dig a pipeline again. You can still do the flying thing, if you want.”

Sam sighed in resignation. No amount of arguing would sway him, so he resorted to dropping the subject in hopes that Dean would forget about the conversation. After returning their books, Hannah came out from behind the circulation desk with a vacuum cleaner.

“Hey Sam, Dean,” she greeted them brightly. “How are you guys?”

“Peachy keen,” Dean replied, then pointed at the vacuum. “Someone spill their reading snacks?”

“Oh,” Hannah puffed humorously. “One of our homeless guys pitched a tent in Mystery again.”

“Again?” Sam piped up inquisitively.

She nodded. “He’s moved on for now, but we always find a lot of dried mud from his boots.”

“Larry or Marv?” Dean asked. 

“Marv. He’s a hoot, isn’t he?”

“He is that.”

Dean used the time upfront to glance around for any sign of Castiel. He came up empty every time, which he took as a good omen that gave him a little extra courage to do some book hunting. He didn’t know what he would do if he ran into the guy. Their last meeting had ended so awkwardly, Dean couldn’t even think of something to reopen the lines of communication.

“You ready for the comic con?” Hannah asked him with that excited glint in her eyes. She really did love that whole ordeal, as she should. She worked hard on it.

“Ready as I’ll ever be. I’ve got my tables mapped out. Nobody called and complained about where I stuck them. I’ll take the win.”

“Like I said, as long as you don’t put similar vendors side-by-side, they’ll be happy.”

It took until that moment for Dean to realize that none of them were whispering. Not even Hannah. Their volume wasn’t Outdoor Voice level either, but it struck him as weird nonetheless. In fact, the whole building seemed more relaxed. Two patrons conversed between their computer screens without fear of being shushed. An older child played a video on his tablet on low volume while his little sister stacked blocks at one of the activity tables. 

Dean excused both of them so Hannah could get back to her Marv mud. Sam was on the prowl for something oddly specific and Dean was content to leave him to his geekery. Dean had riveting fiction to find.

Row after row laid before him, the feat of finding  _ just the right thing _ feeling suddenly daunting. Hannah started up the vacuum a few rows ahead, which was another wonder. Since when did they vacuum during business hours? He ran a finger across a few titles in Science Fiction.

Assuming he would decide on something in this section, where would he even start? He was among giants like Jules Verne, H.G. Wells, and Ray Bradbury. The realm of science fiction was an intimidating one indeed, so he held that thought and rounded the corner to a different genre.

He almost turned tail when he realized he was staring at a bunch of chick lit. Almost every spine was embellished with bodybuilders with their shirts ripped open, cradling fainting women in one arm. Titles included double entendres and buzz words meant to stir interest. Dean had just about had enough when a sticker on one caught his attention. It read “LGBT” with a rainbow over it, and it was stuck to the spine above the call number.

The curiosity was entirely too much. Dean pulled the book out to see the art of two men on the front, presumably the lovers of which the book spoke. With an intrigued hum he cracked it open, slowly at first, as if opening it all the way would sound an alarm that bass pro plumber Dean Winchester was reading a romance novel.

He fell right into the story. It was the writer’s fault; how was he supposed to put something like that down when it was so damn interesting? It was schmoopy and unrealistic but after all, it was a work of fiction. He supposed he could forgive such an infirmity for the sake of escapism.

The end of the first chapter left him craving more, but he couldn’t walk out of this place with a book like that. He just couldn’t. Sam was going to be right there watching him place his book of choice on the counter and… He’d never hear the end of it.

But when Dean slid it back onto the shelf he felt like a gaping hole had just formed in his gut. It felt wrong to put it back when reading the first chapter felt so right. Sighing, he fidgeted with it, balancing it between the shelf and his fingers to test out the feeling of not having it anymore. He didn’t like that feeling at all.

“I think you should check it out,” a rumbling voice suggested behind him.

The color drained from Dean’s face as he gripped onto the book. What was  _ he  _ doing here? He turned on his heel to see Castiel in all his librarian glory, with the exception of anything celebratory of whatever weird holiday he was acknowledging that day.

“Wh — What are you…?” Dean stammered, still holding the book halfway into its place on the shelf. “You’re here?”

Castiel wore a white dress shirt and light khakis but no tie. The pale outfit contrasted with his olive-toned skin, kissed by the Florida sun. His first shirt button was undone, but Dean had the sneaking suspicion something festive was meant to be around his neck. Even so, the outfit was nice on its own.

“Yes, I am here,” he replied matter-of-factly. “I do work here, after all. To the best of my knowledge.”

Dean pulled the book all the way out and turned to face him. He looked down at the novel and back up at Castiel, then realized how utterly unprepared he was for this encounter. “Look, dude —”

“You’re right.”

“I just… Wait. What?”

“The things you said yesterday. Do you remember?”

“Uh,” Dean laughed nervously, “yeah man, how could I not?”

“I did not respond because I did not know how to respond. I reached my social limit before the incident at storytime, so when I stepped in, I was already pushing myself and —”

“Geez Cas, now I  _ really  _ feel like an asshole.”

Castiel looked this way and that as he searched for his words, visibly unfamiliar with this much depth of conversation at one time. “It’s not just you. I mean… You’re not the only asshole. I mean…” He grumbled to himself while rubbing his temples. “I am sorry.”

Dean unclenched his jaw. “Hey, there’s at least eight other ways I could have gotten the point across.”

“Nine by my count. I spent so much time thinking about them, I forgot to put on my Mint Julep Day tie.”

Biting his lip, Dean watched as Castiel composed himself. Seeing the guy pissed was one thing, but seeing him upset at himself was another ballgame entirely. It was kind of sweet. And it was painfully obvious he was out of his element, so Dean couldn’t help but extend a heaping helping of grace.

“I meant what I said at your interview,” he continued. “The library is a place for everyone. Yes, that does include you. And yes, some changes must be made to ensure that this space enriches your life to the maximum extent possible.”

Dean set the book atop a shelf, the silence between them pregnant with meaning. He tried to push down the smile Castiel’s overelaborate explanation put there but it was no use. This man might’ve had some fancy book learning but he couldn’t fool Dean. The cat was friggin’ out.

Still, he had to hear it with his own ears. “You took away the quiet policy for me?”

“You are not the only person relieved with this change. In fact, most of the staff —”

“But you took it away for me. You did that,” Dean clarified, pointing at himself, “for me.”

Castiel let out a breath, his eyes finally locking with Dean’s once more. “Yes.”

Dean’s heart nearly leaped out of his chest. He grinned like an idiot, thumbing absentmindedly at the romance novel as he rubbed the back of his neck with his free hand. Castiel — stick-up-his-ass librarian with a penchant for weird-ass holidays — dropped the pin-drop quiet rule  _ because of him.  _ Dean had never felt so important in his life. He had never felt so empowered, so free.

“Why?” he prodded giddily.

And that idiot could have spouted off about  _ the community’s overall wellbeing _ or  _ every other library was doing it,  _ but he didn’t. He could have explained it away as general progress and that Dean had little to do with it. But he didn’t. That infuriatingly good-looking, mysterious, complicated man looked up at him through dark eyelashes and just smiled instead.

Dean let out a provoked groan and stepped into Cas’ space. His self-restraint was strong, but not this strong. Not strong enough to withstand a coy look from a man that was driving him wild just by standing there — and knowing exactly what he was doing.

He backed Castiel up against a wall of books, hands on either side of him, cornering him in. Dean leaned in closer still, breath hot on his face and lips barely an inch apart. He could feel Castiel’s firm chest against the layers of clothes that separated them. The sensation nearly had him hard right then and there.

Castiel watched it happen from his pinned position against the wall, calm as could be. He trusted in the structure behind him. He knew its strength. He was at home here among the books and shelves and not even bull-in-a-China-shop Dean Winchester shoving him backwards into Historical Fiction could cause him to be bothered. At least, that’s the energy Castiel chose to exude.

Dean had one more play to make. He moved his hands from the walls to the sides of Castiel’s face, testing the appeal it held for both of them. Castiel didn’t flinch or push away. His everlasting five o’clock shadow felt deliciously rough under Dean’s palms. He stepped even closer, their bodies flush, before tilting his head and bumping his nose with Castiel’s — one last warning before doing what he had been wanting to do for a very long time.

And like a sad ending to a song Dean desperately wanted to end happy, Cas slipped his fingers around Dean’s and gently led his hands away from his face. He held them there between them, staring down at the tangle of fingers and palms before meeting Dean’s heartbroken gaze.

“Not here,” he whispered simply.

Dean yielded with a heavy sigh, backing away enough for Castiel to slip out from between him and the wall. He did, but instead of scurrying away as Dean expected, fetched the book from atop the shelf and handed it back to him. Dean looked down at it. He wondered if either man in the book was a stickler against kissing people at work. Probably not. It was a work of fiction, after all.

“Borrow it,” Castiel encouraged. “I’ve heard it’s a good one.”

“Sam will harass me about it for the rest of my life.”

Instead of backing down, Castiel fished two other titles out of the surrounding shelves, one from Science Fiction and the other from Mystery. He placed the romance novel between them and handed the stack to Dean. “Now it’s hiding. And you have two more books to read.”

Damn, that probably shouldn’t have been as attractive as it was, but Dean was already aroused as hell. Plus, Castiel just  _ did stuff  _ all assertive-like here in his element, and he was so confident that everyone else just  _ went with it.  _ Standing alone it would count as dorky, bookish stuff; on Cas, it was  _ sexy as fuck. _

“Thanks Cas,” Dean said as he took the books. “I would kiss you goodbye, but I guess I’m not allowed to do that.”

“Like I said,” he repeated thickly, “not  _ here.” _

The twitterpated daze enveloped Dean in a cloud as he headed for the circulation desk. He felt like he was floating. He had just been physically closer to Cas than ever before and he was high on it. They hadn’t even kissed. Actually, Castiel denied him a kiss. What a tease. He set the books down with his library card, not paying attention to the due date the assistant told him, but knowing it would be printed on the receipt.

Sam checked his items out soon after. They all discussed the deaf community, some in book form, others in audiobooks. He also threw in one random DVD about ghost hunting. The weirdo. “What’d you get?” he asked after they got in the car.

Thankfully, all of Dean’s book spines were facing away from the driver’s seat, so he could tell Sam more or less whatever he wanted. He glanced at the book Cas placed on top anyway. “Uh, some dude from Moscow and… some other stuff.”

Sam hummed his reply, too busy navigating the road to pay Dean’s half-assed response much mind. Neither of them brought up the band thing. Sam wanted the idea to die and Dean was too engrossed in the tingles still prickling his skin to even remember talking about it. 

He only spoke when spoken to, as his mind kept repeating “Not here” like a broken record. It hurt his heart and sent him into a spiral of confusion. What was wrong with kissing in the library? Dean let out a silent sigh as he looked dramatically out the passenger window. He thought and thought and thought.

And then it hit him.

“He was asking me out!” he roared.

Sam just about ran off the road, over-correcting in the other direction and screeching to a halt right before turning into Dean’s apartment complex. “What the hell, Dean?” he yelled, voice shaking.

“Go back! Go back,” Dean begged, craning his neck back in the direction they came from. “I need to go back.”

“Would you calm down? It’s after nine,” Sam said in exasperation. He let his foot off the brake. “Who are you talking about?”

“Cas,” Dean barked impatiently.

“Cas? Castiel?”

“Yes. He was asking me out, but like, in code.”

Sam frowned. “Dude, you’re not making any sense.”

After a huff and turning towards the passenger window, Dean shook his head to signal the end of the conversation. He was making perfect sense; Sam just couldn’t keep up. It didn’t matter, anyway. The library was closed and he didn’t have time to bike all the way back for the rest of the week. He had to wait until comic con Saturday to let Cas know he  _ finally  _ got the punch line. 

Fan-freaking-tastic.


	10. The One Where Dean Comes Very Close to Using the D(ate)-Word, but Not Quite

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The long-awaited day has arrived and Dean's tables are all mapped out. Of all unexpected things to find at a comic con, he discovers the least expected of all: the bright, bubbly person sharing rent with Castiel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen to [Somebody to Love](https://youtu.be/kijpcUv-b8M)

It was already hot when Dean arrived at the library the morning of the comic con, but it was Florida, after all. Wet heat was par for the course in June, no matter what the time of day. He dressed accordingly in salmon shorts and a blue and white striped t-shirt, with white shoes he entrusted to stay that way by staying out of the elements.

He fell right into place among the rest of the early birds, which consisted of a decent chunk of the library staff and several other volunteers. Castiel was present but always off somewhere else, either helping to move a large prop or directing any oddly specific questions to Hannah. He and Dean weren’t avoiding each other, but the coincidence of staying out of each other’s space allowed Dean to concentrate on the con.

Kissing Cas wasn’t something he needed to be focused on today.

Vendors began pouring in as soon as they were allowed at 8:30 am. Within minutes the tables Dean had meticulously arranged and assigned were filling with themed assortments. He admired each table as he made his rounds. Some vendors brought hand-made wares such as jewelry, screen-printed t-shirts, and magic wands; others were loaded with vinyl figures and comic books. As far-removed as Dean was from the nerd scene, he was impressed.

He was also more enthusiastic about this whole ordeal than he had been about anything fiction-centric, ever. Universal Studios hadn’t even gotten him this excited. But then again, he never mapped out the vendor tables at Universal Studios. 

Although his hand in the convention was small, he made it a point to invite everyone he could. He didn’t even care that it wasn’t his usual scene. Over the course of the past four weeks, he had made that table map his bitch, and he’d be damned if every person he knew wouldn’t see his handiwork firsthand.

At 10 o’clock sharp Castiel unlocked the doors, letting in the first wave of fans. The costumed ones were on a mission, as the first cosplay contest began within the hour. The ones in everyday clothes were on their own mission of getting first dibs on rarer pieces the vendors brought. Those not on any time crunch paused by the props near the front, taking pictures of each other in the TARDIS and beside the Darth Vader cardboard cut-out.

Beaming, Hannah watched it unfold from her post near the front doors. She and a volunteer handed out bookmarks with the vendors and contest times printed on them as if her ample advertisements leading up to that day weren’t enough of a reminder. 

It took Dean a good four minutes of staring out the door to realize he had caught Hannah’s contagious enthusiasm for the one-day to-do. Comparatively, it wasn’t a big con. There were no celebrity photo ops, entry fees, or discussion panels. Maybe it was the simplicity that had drawn him in, or maybe he was just excited to show off the small way he helped out. Either way, he focused all of his attention on the front doors, just waiting for any sign of anyone he knew.

“Are you busy?” the undeniable gravel of Cas’ voice asked from behind. Dean turned to see him, more casual than ever in khaki shorts, an unbuttoned chambray shirt with rolled up sleeves, and the real shocker — a Goonies t-shirt.

Dean guffawed.

“What?” Cas asked, looking down at himself in genuine confusion.

He had to look away to collect himself enough to reply, but Dean managed. He ran his hand over his mouth to stifle another laughter-infused grin before replying. “What the hell are you wearing?”

“I assume you mean the shirt that references a significant work of 1980s pop culture.”

“Since when do  _ you  _ watch… well, anything?”

“It’s comic con day,” Cas reasoned. “I wrongly assumed I could join in on the fun of being a fan without being judged by less understanding individuals.” He narrowed his eyes.

Dean cleared his throat and glanced down. “Sorry.”

“I also thought wearing anything referencing D-Day might be in bad taste.”

Looking back up, Dean noticed Castiel’s line of sight pointing towards the front display. He turned his head. Sure enough, the display was covered in books and DVDs alluding to the beach landings in Normandy that day during WWII. Facing Cas again, he let out an understanding grunt and gave a somber nod.

Then his eyes flitted down to the shirt again. “The Goonies, though?”

“It’s a classic.”

Dean sighed in resignation. “Were you going to ask me to do something specific? Or were you just asking in general because, oh I don’t know…” His mind flashed to the other night, and just for a split second, there they were again. Nose to nose. Hands on Cas’ face. He could still feel the scratch of Cas’ scruff against his palms, feel the expectant breaths between them. “...because you’re making general plans and stuff?”

Castiel’s brows scrunched together. “And 'stuff’?”

_ Not here. _

“On a general day of the week when you could have… like… little to no plans for after work, or whatever.”

The man’s face relaxed into his usual neutral composure. The absence of bewilderment suggested that it was possible he caught onto Dean’s oh-so-subtle suggestion of taking their face-sucking plans out of the library. The only other possibility was that the proposal was so vague, it went in one ear and out the other. 

To Dean’s disappointment, Cas posed no giveaways as to whether he would acknowledge the hint. Damn him and his game face.

The next thing Dean knew, Cas had a hand around his wrist, raising it to drop a cluster of keys into his open palm. As quickly as his touch was there it was gone again, leaving his whole arm prickling with the warmth of his touch. He looked down at the keys, then backed up.

“We need another set of steps from the storage shed out back,” Castiel stated. “The people who assembled the stage for the contests only put up one set. We need them on both sides of the stage.” When Dean hesitated to answer, Cas amended with a brief, “If you don’t mind.”

“You comin’ with?”

Castiel gave his head a questioning tilt. “I have duties to fulfill here, Dean. If you need help carrying it in, I can send someone to assist you.”

“No,” Dean grumbled as he stuffed the keys into his pocket. “It’s fine. I got it.” He began his walk towards the unassuming side door, which would land him the closest to the storage shed behind the building. As he pushed past the door he couldn’t shake the pang of rejection stemming from Castiel’s abrupt change of subject. Did he just  _ turn down  _ Dean’s offer to take him out? After indicating that Dean could kiss him, but not at work?

A  _ splosh  _ beneath his feet tore his attention back to the present. “Dammit,” he muttered, lifting the foot that had stepped in a puddle on the first step out of the library. That asshole librarian sent Dean into the mud with white shoes. He was probably cackling at Dean’s misfortune and the way his heart hurt after such an eloquent date proposal. And he was wearing a Goonies shirt.

The psycho.

Dean carried out the task with sharp, resentful motions. Only the clanging of keys on a lock broke the silence. He couldn’t even be bothered to dignify Cas’ request with a defiant swear word. It was just an obstacle. Cas was just playing hard to get. That was it, and soon he’d be back inside, impressing the bastard with his upper body strength. And  _ then  _ Cas would be humming a different tune.

He would try again once the stage was fixed and Cas could think beyond the library walls. Maybe he wasn’t being an idiot after all. It was entirely possible he was just… distracted. Amid the bustle of comic con was an odd time to suggest a date, after all. Especially to someone as laser-focused as Cas. Maybe the rejection wasn’t final. Maybe it was just another “not here.”

After locking the shed and finagling the steps through the side door, he hefted the whole thing on one shoulder and headed for the center of the library, where the contests would soon be held. The wooden stage was made especially for events like this and had to be assembled in pieces. He set down the steps on the side opposite of the existing ones, mission accomplished and turned on his heel to see none other than Sam and Eileen.

The hair on both of them had Dean doing a double-take. Sam was barely recognizable in a short wig with the hair at the top heavily styled. Seeing hair off of his brother’s ears made Dean’s life flash before his eyes for a moment, but he shook off the shock to take in the rest of their ensembles. 

Sam wore a brown pinstripe suit, but the Converse were a giveaway without even taking Eileen’s cosplay into consideration. She had on a cropped blue bomber jacket, zipped and buttoned over a tea-length pink dress, plus a blonde wig with a pink hairband. They were adorable. Dean cracked a smile.

“Ten and Rose, huh?”

The two shot a playful glance at each other. “It was either that or Jack and Sally,” Sam revealed, “and I didn’t have time to make a giant skeleton costume.”

_ Next year,  _ Eileen suggested.

The part of Dean’s brain dedicated to rooting for Sam and Eileen’s relationship screeched and did a backflip. It warmed his heart to see them going steady enough to actually follow through on a couple cosplay  _ and  _ mention doing it again in a year. He must’ve had a glazed, sappy look on his face because Sam gave him a questioning blink.

“What?”

“Nothin’,” Dean replied, shaking his head with an insistent pout. “Absolutely nothin’. I dig the outfits. You guys entering the group contest?”

_ Yes,  _ Eileen signed,  _ but it looks like we’ve got some steep competition. _

Dean looked around briefly, already knowing she was right. Other couples were dressed to match among the mass of people, and some of them had gone the more elaborate route. Just from where they stood, Dean spotted Captain America and Peggy Carter, and at least two Jokers and Harley Quinns. In addition to the couples, several people were traveling in larger groups. Dean wasn’t well-versed in all of the represented fandoms, but one bunch was dressed as ninjas and another as characters from an anime he was sure he had seen on the DVD shelves.

_ Eleven thirty,  _ Dean signed the group competition time to her. She smiled and Sam waved before they headed off to explore the vendor tables, leaving Dean alone with his thoughts and muddy shoes once again. The place was abuzz with chatter, but it wasn’t loud enough to drown out the rumble of a motorcycle pulling up right outside the front doors.

He had to hand it to her: Incorporating a helmet into her cosplay was clever, if not a bit extra. Bee had bought one just for today and pimped it up to resemble Leia Organa’s Endor helmet. The apartment smelled like glue and paint for a solid twelve hours, despite the fact that she did all her cosplay assembly behind the closed doors of her room. 

All in all, the lingering odors and secrecy were worth it. She hadn’t bothered with the camo poncho, giving the excuse that “riding a motorcycle with anything that flaps in the wind is just downright ungroovy.” Truth be told, her cosplay was badass without it. Every detail was accounted for.

Apparently, gray pants with tan stripes down the sides were a bitch to find. Over the past few weeks, she had acquired the boots, utility belt, holster, and a tan-colored collared shirt. She even got a hold of an eerily accurate cap-sleeve vest with the weird patch thing, which she insisted she hand-sewed, but Dean was pretty sure she was lying.

The only glance of the finished product he had gotten that morning was in passing as he crammed a handful of dry cereal into his mouth. He nearly tripped over her as she ducked into the fridge for a single-serving carton of chocolate milk. Now that they weren’t stepping over each other in a race against time, he could make a real compliment instead of “there’s no friggin’ way you made that; you don’t even own a sewing machine.”

But for now, someone was saying Castiel’s name unnervingly close by, drawing his attention away from the front doors. The feminine voice was light and cheery, saying the librarian’s name in a familiar way, like she had said it many times before, instead of stumbling over letters on a nametag. Dean twisted around too quickly, spotting a flash of fiery red hair. 

He turned the rest of his body, his eyes drifting to where her voice called. Cas paused from walking through the throng, eyes brightening as he altered his path to cross hers. Dean hummed inquisitively, more concerned with the fact that Cas obviously knew this individual — meaning stuffy, socially reserved Castiel had actual, real-life friends — than any unease he might have over a girl seeming buddy-buddy.

She wasn’t giving off those vibes anyway.

“You’ll be happy to know I finally returned all those Buffy DVDs,” the red-haired girl told him with a nervous chuckle. “Sorry I kept them a few days late.”

Castiel’s brow shot up. “A few days late? Two months is not a 'few days late’, Charlie.”

Although cringing, Charlie smiled her way through it. “How bad is it?”

“Your fines are fifteen dollars per disc.”

“Oh, ouch. Um… Are there finance options?”

Dean couldn’t help but notice Cas’ spectacularly calm demeanor, despite the bad library manners this lady kept. Cas carried himself in a way that made offenses such as late items seem unforgivable. Yet they discussed it like the weather or an amusing Yelp review.

Castiel’s eyes darted to Dean’s for a split second after Charlie’s inquiry. The quick look made Dean realize he was staring, but he didn’t have time to avert his gaze before Charlie craned her neck to follow Cas’ line of sight. Now two people knew he had been staring. Great. Dean smirked and waved, taking a step back.

“He might cut you some slack if you get permanent marker out of an activity table,” he offered clumsily. 

The red-haired girl gave a puzzled blink just for a second before her expression softened again. When she put a hand to her hip and faced him full-on, Dean noticed her Han Solo cosplay for the first time. It was good, too. The leg holster was even real leather.

Dean, Charlie, and Castiel stood in a loose triangle in the midst of the constantly moving crowd. Of all the people present, and out of all the words that could’ve made Castiel restless, it wasn’t until Dean opened his mouth that he noticed a difference in the librarian’s mood. Castiel kept looking at Charlie, then at the ground, as if waiting for something to register to her. It wasn’t an angry look; just perturbed, like he hadn’t prepared himself for this moment quite yet.

“Hold up,” Charlie said to Dean. “You did that?”

Dean shot a quick glance at Cas, who was looking down at the moment, then back up to Charlie. He swallowed. “Uh, guilty as charged.”

Charlie opened her eyes wide. “Dude, no way.”

Eyes bouncing from Charlie to Cas, Dean grasped for whatever sense he could make of Charlie’s disbelief and found none. “How — I’m sorry, what?”

Castiel cleared his throat and jumped in. “Charlie, I’m sure Dean would like to greet the family and friends he invited to the con.”

“Oh,” Dean dismissed, “Sam and Eileen are already accounted for. My roommate too, if she ever gets her dramatic ass out of the parking lot and joins the party.”

Charlie beamed. “You’ve got a dramatic roomie too, huh?” Leaning into Castiel’s space, she poked him with her elbow and giggled.

It was Dean’s turn to take a beat to absorb the strongly implied information before his eyes bugged out. He pointed from one to the other. “You’re…” Charlie nodded. “He’s…” Cas bit his lip and looked at the floor. “Roommates?”

“And you must be Dean Winchester,” Charlie filled in, stepping forward to shake his hand. “Dude. I’ve heard so much about you.”

A choked sound wheezed out of Dean’s chest as he reflexively shook Charlie’s hand, still catching up with the alleged detail that the stiff librarian he was sure hated him had been feeding this spritey red-headed person all the melodrama between them. All this time Dean had just assumed he either kept a journal or recited his hate-filled orations to a hanging plant.

No, this was the opposite of what Dean expected. This was the opposite of what Dean wanted. Sure, he had spouted off all his own yearnings to a listening ear. But what good could possibly come from someone else hearing about Dean’s storytime disaster and The Almost Kiss?

Oh, this was very bad.

Charlie knew. About  _ everything.  _ Their first interaction between the bookshelves. The interview. The nights of volunteering. Dean shoving Castiel against a wall of books. This stranger — this Charlie — knew, because Castiel had  _ told her.  _ What was Dean supposed to do with that?

There was no way in hell she’d condone anything happening between them, after hearing about the shit Dean had pulled. Distracted by a book on his first night of volunteering. Getting ink out of a table just to impress Cas. Scaring the shit out of eleven kids. Being half an inch from Castiel’s face.

“Oh uh,” Dean babbled aimlessly, “I’m uh… It’s…” He shoved his twitchy hands in his pockets and shrugged. “Um.”

Mercifully, Charlie cut in again. “Oh, don’t sweat it. I’m sure you’ve got some dirt on your roommate, too. What’s she like?”

Dean instinctively turned towards the front doors, spotting Bee and sighing in relief at the chance to shift the conversation. “Ah, there she is. Finally.”

He was about to start the long dissertation of what it was like to share rent with the odd little duck, starting with the corner pastry shop they could no longer visit, but the words halted behind his teeth when he noticed Charlie was no longer looking at him. In fact, she had totally tuned him out. Every bit of attention she had paid to him and Castiel was now honed in on the person sauntering through the doors in full Endor Leia getup.

Bee pulled off her helmet and rested it against her hip, scanning the room before locking eyes with the fiery red-haired Han Solo just a few feet in front of Dean and Castiel. 

A breath hitched in Charlie’s throat. “Holy mother of Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” she muttered as her cheeks flushed pink. “My poor, helpless, sapphic heart.”

Dean waved Bee over, and she was walking in their direction, but the two were not correlated. Bee’s peripheral vision had gone out the door. She promptly started ignoring him as soon as she laid eyes on Charlie. And as soon as Bee began walking towards them, Charlie panicked.

“Oh my God, Cas,” she whispered, reaching behind her while keeping her eyes forward. She caught ahold of his arm. “She’s almost up here. I should say hi. Shouldn’t I? Or ‘hey’? Should I say ‘hi’ or ‘hey’? Is ‘hey’ too casual?”

“You’ll be fine, Charlie,” he assured her gently. 

“Says you! When you met the person who made you ‘jealous of boolean operators’ you tried to run away!”

Dean’s face scrunched up as he mouthed “boolean operators” to himself. Charlie released Cas’ arm, standing a little taller on an inhale as Bee stopped three feet away from her. It was a good time to do introductions, Dean determined, but he couldn’t think of a single word to say. Not when he was witnessing the closest thing to actual heart-eyes emanating from this red-headed girl. 

And then there was the way Bee was looking back at Charlie. There might as well have been zero other people in the room. She looked at Charlie like Indiana Jones looked at long-lost treasure, like she could see through anyone who dared to block her view. As it turned out, the surrounding crowd seemed to feel the tug between them, walking around the two ladies, not in between. It was like they knew, too.

“H-hi,” Charlie stammered with a smitten grin. “You um… Your cosplay kicks ass.”

Bee indulged a look down at Charlie’s Han Solo getup, the close proximity giving her a close-up look at every painstaking detail. She smiled. “Mine isn’t the only one.” 

“Even got a helmet. Nice.”

Bee glanced at the helmet propped against her hip. “Oh, it’s a real helmet. Just decked it out for the con.”

“Geez, that is… super badass.”

“I’ll still use it after today, though. Even if it doesn’t really match my motorcycle.”

Charlie’s eyes widened and she took in a tiny gasp. “You have a motorcycle?” She crooked her neck to mouth _ oh-my-God _ at Cas before turning back around. “Seriously?”

“Yeah, I drove it here,” Bee replied smugly. 

Dean took a gander at Castiel, who was watching Charlie’s wide-eyed wonder with low-key amusement. Maybe it wasn’t so bad that Cas had a roommate, now that said roommate was falling head-over-heels for Dean’s roommate. It would be something to distract Charlie from absorbing too many embarrassing Dean-at-the-library stories.

Yes, this could be a good thing.

He cleared his throat, pulling Castiel’s attention toward him. “So… roommates.” He cringed. Here he was with the perfect opportunity to pull the conversation back to going out on a date, and he squandered it with an awkward opener like this.

_ Stellar, Winchester. _

Cas humored the subject change, hands in his pockets and head giving a small nod. “Charlie brings much life to our otherwise quiet home. She’s been very excited to meet you.”

Dean could just see it now: the bubbly redhead babbling on while Castiel reclined in a chair with his nose in a book. The thought of a talkative someone keeping him social outside of work made Dean smile. “You haven’t said a word about her.”

“The opportunity never presented itself.”

Boom, there it was. The chance at another stab at his date offer. “About that —”

“Hey guys,” Sam piped up from a few feet away, grabbing both Dean and Cas’ attention. He and Eileen emerged from the crowd in all their 10th Doctor and Rose Tyler glory, but no first place ribbon in sight. Even so, they were smiling like anything, just returned from the group competition.

“Hey,” Dean replied, only slightly discouraged at the interruption. “How’d it go?”

“Lots of people clapped for us,” Eileen said contently, “but we didn’t place. It’s okay, though.” She signed and said, “Next time.”

“They better have clapped for you,” Dean said defensively. “Who doesn’t love Ten and Rose?”

“After this, I was thinking,” Sam suggested, “how about we all go get dinner somewhere? You too, Cas. If you want.”

Dean looked from his brother to Cas with a lip between his teeth, hoping to all that was holy Sam’s invitation wouldn’t be turned down. It wasn’t worded as a double date, per se, but for all intents and purposes, that’s what it was. An impromptu one, at that.

“I don’t want to hold anyone up,” Castiel began. “Clean-up will take about an hour after the con ends, and —”

“Oh, don’t worry about it,” Sam excused. “We’ll wait. Hell, we’ll stick around to help out.”

Eileen nodded, and Dean raised his brows in anticipation of the final verdict from Cas.

“Alright,” he sighed at last. “Your help is greatly appreciated.”

Dean’s shoulders relaxed. That son of a bitch had really done it. His little brother was getting him and Castiel out of the library together, which meant his chances for getting that kiss he wanted had just multiplied exponentially.

Tonight was going to be  _ awesome.  _ Even if Cas was wearing a friggin’ Goonies shirt.

“What about those two lovebirds over there?” Dean asked, pointing his thumb behind him.

“I dig it,” Bee responded, walking into the circle next to Dean while Charlie stood between her and Castiel. She dropped her voice to a whisper. “Mr. ‘Dubs, I think I’m in love.”

“Easy there, tiger,” he muttered back. “That’s Cas’ roomie you’re crushing on. Don’t wanna give ‘em too much to talk about.”

“Sure we do,” she retorted. “Cas is… cool, I guess. And Charlie is so pretty and smells nice, and her outfit rocks and she has every Playstation, and —”

“Alright, I get it. Should I assume you two are gonna roll up on that donorcycle of yours?”

-

On Bee’s other side, Charlie was grinning from ear to ear as she leaned in to fill Castiel in on all the juicy details. “Dude, have I died and gone to Heaven? I’m so happy, I’m gonna spontaneously combust.”

“Please refrain from doing that until I can fetch the nearest fire extinguisher.”

“Is this how you feel around Dean all the time? Because wow.” Charlie shook her head. “I just want to buy her little  hors d'oeuvres and watch Hallmark movies with her. While eating the hors d’oeuvres. And cuddling.”

“That’s a strange combination, but speaking of food —”

“Lots of cuddling. And maybe chocolate milk in wine glasses.”

“Dean’s brother is inviting the four of us to eat with them after the con.”

Charlie’s mouth opened wide for a big intake of breath. “Hell to the yes! A triple date!”

-

Meanwhile, Bee’s arms were crossed in disbelief at the failed dating attempt Dean had made that morning. “You asked him  _ what?” _

“If he was making general plans for after work… and stuff.”

Bee blinked. “Yeah, that doesn’t actually count as asking someone out.”

Dean leaned away defensively. “The hell are you talking about? Of course it does.”

“That was the vaguest ask-out I’ve ever heard in my life. No wonder he ignored you. He’s probably waiting for you to use the  _ actual  _ word ‘date’ in a sentence.”

Dean looked down with furrowed brows, pondering her logic. “Sam didn’t use the word, but Cas agreed to his offer.”

“Sam didn’t have to use the word. Sam’s not the one trying to woo the librarian.” When Dean simply gave a disgruntled pout in reply, Bee continued. “Ask him tonight at the restaurant. But ask him  _ for real _ this time.”

“What am I supposed to say, huh? ‘Hey, wanna make out? Also, let’s do the date thing again sometime soon, except with vastly less people’?”

Bee shrugged. “That works.”

The group decided on a place and time, then split up to get what each needed to get done at the comic con. Dean helped out with various other chores Hannah and Castiel handed him, and he tried to ignore the way Castiel looked at him when he thought Dean wasn’t looking. It was a look full of intent and it made Dean red in the face. It was a look he could feel even when he couldn’t see Cas.

After the con ended, library employees and volunteers began stacking chairs, folding tables, taking out the trash, and arranging furniture back to their original spots. The stage and steps went back to the outdoor storage without Dean getting his white shoes muddy again. After the whole tear-down was over and Dean could find Sam and Eileen again, they meandered towards the front doors.

Castiel came out from behind the circulation desk, where Hannah was checking off the last to-do’s before she and the last few stragglers could leave. Charlie was by his side as soon as he stepped out, linking her arm in his and dragging him towards the promise of food. They joined Dean, Sam, and Eileen, just about to the doors when Dean spun his head around in search of the missing sixth person.

“Where’s Bee?” he asked once he realized she wasn’t with Charlie.

The answer came in the form of a motorcycle engine roaring to life. Just outside, so close to the doors they could smell the gasoline, Bee revved it and smirked at Charlie’s enthralled blush. She cocked her head, motioning for Charlie to fill the seat behind her, to which Charlie let out a tiny squeal before bursting through the front doors ahead of the others.

Dean rolled his eyes. Damn kamikazes, jumping on a glorified scooter with too much speed and no seat belts. At least that took care of their ride to the restaurant. The rest of them would pile in with Sam. 

As Charlie settled in behind Bee and gave Cas an enthusiastic thumbs up, Dean stole a glance to see Cas turning up the smallest of smiles at his energetic roommate. What a sight the two opposites must be.  His lips turned back to their usual neutral line as the girls zoomed off — the lips Dean wanted so desperately to get his on. It wouldn’t be long now. 

Cas glanced at Dean before he could tear his eyes away from Cas’ mouth. Dean coughed out a grunt and kept his eyes forward for the rest of the way to Sam’s car, the hunger for that kiss building in his gut. It twisted his stomach into knots and took off the edge of his appetite. Soon enough he would have this man in his arms and at last, he would know the plumpness of his lips, the taste of his mouth.

As he and Castiel took the backseats, Dean stole one more peek to the side to see that Cas’ eyes had wandered to him, too. Dean looked down, swallowing as a blush rose to his cheeks. And then he smiled. 


	11. The One With Boolean Operators

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the comic con, the six head off to end the night with laughter and tacos.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen to [The Shoop Shoop Song](https://youtu.be/yCpKQjqb8Y4)

“Wait a minute,” Sam guffawed. “You made a fake account just so he would clean the sink?”

The six of them sat at their table in absolute stitches as story after story crossed their alcohol-laced lips. Being the designated driver, Sam was the only one at the table without a buzz, but it gave him the advantage of talking the rest of them into handing over every gory detail.

“I think what you’re failing to realize,” Charlie cut in, “is that her method worked. The sink got cleaned, did it not?”

“It did,” Sam acknowledged.

“And in the process, Dean got into the habit of doing his share of household chores, instead of relying on an archaic, patriarchal expectation that excludes him from pulling his own weight, correct?”

“Hey,” Dean barked.

“Go off,” Bee said above the howls of laughter from their table.

“And,” Charlie continued, holding up a finger in an effort to calm them all down. “Dean did not, in fact, hook up that night with someone with a shallow interest in him, when the object of his affection was a bike ride away the whole time. Am I getting warmer?”

“Charlie,” Castiel cautioned. His own breath smelled like alcohol but he wasn’t quite wasted enough to start agreeing with a tirade that referenced him. “Eat the rest of your tacos.”

Dean sat directly beside Castiel upon arriving at the lively restaurant boasting of authentic tacos and the best margaritas in town. Cas didn’t seem to mind, Dean found out as their legs brushed more than once without either recoiling. That was before the alcohol. Now Dean’s blood was warm with it and every rough skim Cas’ shorts made beside his own sent tendrils of hot want straight to his dick.

But the bastard was just as restrained as always, with his untensed shoulders and stiff hair he just ran a hand through, ruining the style for anything other than activities Dean could think up that would ruin it even more. It was becoming obvious that Cas wasn’t a loud drunk, but a deeply philosophical one. He was nursing a whiskey, neat, right there in a Mexican restaurant like the strange one he was.

Everyone else was either on a beer or margarita, or in Dean’s case, one of each, plus water to wash it down. Staying hydrated helped with hangovers and besides, he wanted to spend his Sunday morning on the lake with a fishing pole in his hand instead of whining into his pillow about a headache.

“Did you tell ‘em the one with the scissors?” Dean recalled with a lazy wave in Bee’s direction. “From IKEA?”

Bee laughed. “Oh, okay. Gather ‘round, children. So I come home from IKEA with a three-pack of scissors. I’m like, ‘Great, we can have a pair for almost every room.’ Besides, we’ve somehow survived two whole months without scissors, and it’s time, y’know? So anyway, I get home with these mothers and realize I need scissors to separate the scissors… because IKEA packages them zip-tied together. What kind of psychopathic company zip-ties scissors together, when I clearly  _ need  _ scissors to get to the scissors?”

Taking a break from Bee’s story, Dean glanced over at Cas, who was half-listening with glazed-over eyes. “Y’know, I hear their tequila selection is kinda awesome.” He spoke quietly enough to not disturb the rest of the table.

Cas shook his head. “I jus’ like a glass of whiskey every now and then. Charlie will confirm.”

Dean looked down to recall numerous memories of using his own bottle of Jack Daniels as a coping mechanism against his growing feelings for the man next to him. Unlike Cas, he didn’t stop at one glass. But there was something familiar about the tool being used to avoid the inevitable, and the longsuffering voice of reason on the other end of the couch.

“Just tired from today. Issalot,” Cas slurred when Dean did not immediately reply. “The comic con and… yes.”

Dean narrowed his eyes and took another swig of beer. “Hannah handled most of the comic con.” Cas did not shy away from Dean’s gaze when their eyes met. Drunk on whiskey and the piercing stare from after the con returning, he looked right back as Dean challenged his cryptic statement. “You sure you’re not just tired of your roomie telling you to sack up and get over yourself?”

The corner of Cas’ mouth turned up as he dropped his gaze. 

Dean snorted a laugh, then thrummed his fingertips on the table. “Sorry if I butcher this, but, what the hell is a booty-man — I mean, boolie-fan, erm… Botany…?”

“Boolean operator,” Castiel finished, unable to help the amused smile wrinkling his nose. He took another small sip from his glass and sighed before facing Dean. “Words such as ‘and’, ‘or’, and ‘not.’ They are used as conjunctions to combine or exclude keywords in a search, resulting in more focused and productive results.”

As much as Dean would’ve liked to blame his lack of understanding on the alcohol, he was pretty sure he wouldn’t have been able to decipher that sober, either. “And you’re jealous of these because… why?”

At first, Cas’ eyes darted around, like he expected Dean to eventually catch up. When the air between them grew quiet, he wet his lips and settled into his chair comfortably for the explanation. “They save time and effort by eliminating irrelevant hits. How nice it must be to have a tool to express the relationship of one term to the other, without a single unnecessary assumption. Without having to scour the earth and get thousands of bad search results, just to find the one person you’re searching for.”

Dean’s brows creased at first, then flew upward. It was an awful lot of words for “I like you”, but he’d be damned if his heart didn’t flutter a little at the definition that somehow took a very personal turn.

“That’s the nerdiest thing anyone’s ever said to me,” he said bluntly, but with a hesitant smile twitching upward. 

“Plenty more where that came from,” Cas said with the tiniest of smug smirks.

The rest of the table kept telling stories, gradually less inhibited as the minutes dragged on and the drinks kept coming. At surrounding tables, larger parties were in similar predicaments while the wait staff worked their magic to keep everything running smoothly.

  
Cas’ flirtation was bookish but somehow arousing. The warmth of it coursed through Dean’s veins, Cas’ slight smile replaying across his mind in the short amount of time it took Dean to finish off his beer. He wanted nothing more than to slam his glass down and smash their faces together. Cas was right there, inches away. 

Would he be game for that? It’s not like anyone at their table was paying attention. Or maybe that was the alcohol talking. Either way, it was all Dean could think about, what with all of Castiel’s ruined hair and elaborate definitions.

“So,” Cas spoke up again. His tone indicated a change of subject, which Dean internally lamented. He wasn’t ready. He needed to tell Cas that they didn’t need boolean operators. That their meeting wasn’t an irrelevant hit. “Have you found any other career options worth exploring?”

Dean shifted in his seat when he remembered that yes, he had mentioned that to Cas during the interview. That was a while ago. He remembered that? “Nothing that’s jumping out at me,” he said with a shrug. “Visited Rainbow Motors, got to see what it’s like working at a garage. If I knew jack about cars, I’d be all in, but that’s just not me.”

Fully expecting Cas to already be bored to tears, Dean chanced a glance over, but Cas’ full attention was on him. Pleasantly surprised at his interest, Dean continued.

“I thought it might be cool to do something alongside Sam, like a band or something. But he’s got enough on his plate as it is, going to pilot school and all. I don’t even know how he has time for a girlfr—”

“It’s not a fart, it’s a ghost cigar!” Sam bellowed from his end of the table.

Both Cas and Dean’s heads whipped around to the source of the outburst. Sam quieted down once he realized how loud he had been, but the bickering between him and the three women went on.

“Cigars and farts don’t even smell alike,” he continued.

“Maybe you just haven’t smelled enough farts,” Charlie reasoned. “I’ve smelled a few smoky ones in my day.”

“Ghosts aren’t even real,” Eileen said. “It was definitely a fart.”

“What if,” Bee interjected, “the ghost cigar smelled so bad, it made the paranormal investigator fart?”

Dean’s brows furrowed in bewilderment, and after a second of silence, Sam, Eileen, Charlie, and Bee once again erupted into a squabble of fact versus fiction, differing ghost hunting techniques, and urban legends surrounding someplace Dean still hadn’t managed to make out. He turned to Cas, who silently watched the heated conversation progress, but with far less confusion in his eyes.

“The St. Augustine lighthouse,” he clarified, quiet enough to not be reeled into the conversation the other two-thirds of the table was having. “For years, many people have reported unexplained occurrences. Footsteps, laughter, the disembodied smell of a cigar… It’s quite the tourist spot for those interested in ghosts.”

“You believe in that stuff?” Dean asked — not judgmentally; only out of curiosity. He was somewhat of an agnostic himself but to each their own. Finding out more about Cas held far more fascination to him than the belief itself.

Cas’ head gave a slight tilt. “I’m not sure I’ve decided either way. Most media representation is exaggerated at best and falsified at worst. I’ve done plenty of reading on both points of view.”

Dean’s mind flashed back to the ghost hunting DVD his brother borrowed the same night Dean borrowed the romance novel. Sam hadn’t brought it up, but his general interest in the topic at hand suggested he was at least moderately invested. His suspicions were confirmed when Sam set his glass of water down and asserted himself back into the conversation.

“I think we should go see for ourselves.”

Eileen, Charlie, and Bee reacted to Sam’s proposition with their own ideas of how exactly they would go about doing that. To Dean, spending the night getting spooked sounded like a spectacular waste of valuable sleeping time. He turned to Castiel, interested in whether he held the same general belief, and found that his facial expression suggested a complete outage of his social battery.

Cas looked tired, but not physically. The light in his eyes seemed far away, as if he was running on reserves and had no more to give to the general public. He leaned over the table, chin in his hand, eyes wandering the table but detached from any nearby conversation. It had been a long day, and his momentum had lasted the entire comic con and into the night, but now he was done. That much was clear.

Dean scooted his chair back. “Come on,” he mumbled to Cas, back turned to Sam and the girls.

Cas said nothing but gave Dean a perplexed look.

“Let’s sit outside,” Dean suggested as he tossed enough cash onto the table to cover his meal and drinks.

The clarification seemed to ease Castiel, who followed Dean out of the restaurant and onto the front porch. It was long enough after dinner for the outside waiting area to be empty, so they settled into a swinging bench and absorbed the silence, a contrast to the constant indoor noise.

For a while neither said anything. It was nice, actually. Dean didn’t need Castiel to run his mouth to be interesting and hoped he might feel the same way. Being alone together in the silence of the night with no duties to fulfill, no to-do lists to check off, was a new experience in itself. Even in the relatively quiet library, they never had anything like this.

Until now, they always had a task in common, or at the least, a location. They spoke because they were doing similar jobs. There on the swinging bench, it was just them. No volunteer work. No front displays and random holiday lapel pins. No stacks of books to give them something in common and no watching eyes to keep them from nudging just a little closer than socially acceptable.

It was brand new and Dean liked it.

“I feel like I don’t know much about you,” he finally said. “The stuff you know about me would scare away the average date. Tell me something about you.”

Castiel pondered the request for a beat. One corner of his mouth quirked up. “Something that would scare away the average date?”

Dean shrugged. “Sure, why the hell not. Hit me.”

“I’ve lowered Charlie’s late fees before.”

“Oh man,” Dean feigned deep concern, “I’m calling the cops.”

“I was arrested once,” Cas confessed, voice lowered, as if afraid someone inside had superhuman hearing and could somehow make out what he was saying.

Dean’s eyes widened in interest. “Woah,  _ now  _ we’re getting somewhere. Alright jailbird, what was your horrendous crime?”

“I needed better lighting.”

“You… needed better lighting?”

“Yes,” Cas said with a tone that suggested he was making perfect sense. “It was at night, and I couldn’t see the words, and the street lamps shine brightest near the roof —”

“Words? Roof? Cas, what the hell are you talking about?

“The _words_ in the _book_ I was reading. It was too dark to read so I climbed onto the roof so I could read by the street lamp light.”

“You climbed onto what roof?”

“The library!”

The story had barely started and Dean already felt like he had whiplash. He really hadn’t prepared himself for Bad Boy Cas, after all. “Your library?”

“Of course not,” Cas clipped. “This was years before I became a librarian. I simply wanted adequate light and found it atop the library roof. Apparently, someone saw me climbing and called the police since it was dark and after hours.” He shook his head, still abraded by the memory despite it being many years ago. “I still don’t see what the problem was. Why can’t people just mind their own business?”

One of Dean’s brows rose. Clearly, Cas was oblivious to how the situation would look to a casual passerby, but he wasn’t about to derail the conversation. Instead, he shifted in his seat, teetering his wrist on the bench with his arm draped behind it — the step one made immediately before putting their arm around someone. The new spot made it easier to face Cas and put their bodies a little closer.

“So you became a librarian as an act of revenge,” Dean surmised. “Now you can have good lighting whenever you want.”

He wasn’t actually expecting Cas to let out a huff out of his nose — a sort of silent laugh — but he did. Dean’s stomach did a backflip. “Although it is a nice perk to have the physical ability to unlock the building and turn all the lights on at will, that is not the reason. Although your premise would make a fascinating story.”

“I think that’s the story you should tell people,” Dean suggested, struggling to keep his voice from quivering like one of the love-struck fools in the novel he had checked out. “Means, motive, opportunity… Vengeance is mine, saith Cas. It’s pretty badass.”

“That makes it sound more like a murder mystery.”

_ The murder of my self-respect,  _ Dean thought as he found himself leaning in closer, breathless as he stared into those big blue eyes. He couldn’t help the hunger that grew in his gut as Cas’ throaty voice churned out more beautiful sounds. It hit differently this close with no one else around, reverberating into his bones, igniting every nerve in him that demanded his and Cas’ bodies to be on each other.

His arm snaked around Cas’ shoulders. God, when did they smoosh up against each other like this? Dean swallowed, their faces so close he was sure Cas heard the nervous  _ gulp  _ behind it. But Cas made no indication of which, instead watching Dean’s Adam’s apple bob up and down before meeting his gaze once more.

“Um,” Dean puffed, in such close proximity that he barely had to speak above a murmur. “So does this count as the date I asked you on earlier today?”

Castiel’s eyes danced across Dean’s face for a moment. “It took me several hours to realize that was what you meant.”

“Yeah, maybe I should’ve been more specific.” He gave an embarrassed smirk as he remembered the cryptic hodgepodge of words he spilled in the middle of their busy day. Making a comic con happen and being vague about wanting to date the head honcho of the library was perhaps not the best combo. “Does that mean it counts?”

“Do you want it to count?”

Every fiber of Dean’s being was alive with how much he wanted to close the space between their mouths. Their sides were already impossibly close. His arm was draped around Castiel’s shoulder, holding him there, and if their faces moved an inch closer it would be like being sucked into a black hole. No turning back, no escape.

And he thought about Castiel’s question. Of course he wanted it to count. But on one condition: the whole reason Dean was here, outside of the comfort of the library with Cas. 

For a split-second, his mind took him back to the moment he had Cas up against a wall of books, nose to nose, chest to chest. Hot breaths warming the air between them. Eyes on each other’s mouths. “Not here,” Castiel had told him. It was a yes to a kiss, but a no to the setting.

So here they were, somewhere else.

“Only if I get to kiss you,” Dean replied at last.

Cas blinked, a sparkle returning to his eyes that Dean hadn’t seen since the day they nearly brushed lips. In the beat Cas remained motionless Dean held his breath, bracing himself for rejection in some form: Cas stomping off, pushing him away, laughing in his face… For all the attraction between them, Dean had to entertain the possibility that Cas wasn’t interested after all, as much as it would hurt.

  
But Cas did none of those things.

With a breathy exhale, Castiel’s eyes fluttered down to Dean’s mouth. He leaned in a little, tilting his face. Dean nearly gasped in relief, lips slightly parted and  _ finally  _ eliminating the last bit of space between them. And he could have  _ sworn  _ he felt the first hint of soft lips on his when the restaurant door swung open and —

“Hey guys, so get this,” Sam’s voice tore them out of their reverie.

Groaning, Dean whipped his head around and stared a hole into Sam, who was cluelessly holding the door open for Eileen, Charlie, and Bee. Dean hoped his death glare and arm around Cas would get the point across, but Sam was none the wiser, continuing on his announcement like it was indisputably the most interesting part of their night.

“We talked about the lighthouse some more after you guys came out here, and we decided to go check it out. As a group.”

Letting out an aggravated huff, Dean looked from Sam to each of the girls and back to Sam. “The haunted lighthouse? We’re going ghost hunting?”

“Yep, next Wednesday.” He nodded at Cas. “You’re invited too, obviously.”

“Took care of yours in there,” Charlie told Cas, pointing with her thumb over her shoulder towards the restaurant. “You owe me one.”

Castiel said nothing, perhaps even more jarred by what had transpired in the last twenty seconds than Dean. After the initial shock came anger, simmering just below the surface and tempting Dean to say  _ fuck it _ and smash their mouths together right then and there. After that came numbness, like they didn’t just come within millimeters of getting what they had been wanting for quite some time.

But they did just come within millimeters of it. And now their designated driver was hauling everyone off. Soon he and Castiel would be in different apartments, preparing to sleep in different beds, and nowhere close enough to kiss each other goodnight.

Dean was going to be pissed at Sam for at least four days.

Charlie gave directions to her and Castiel’s place. It was in an unfamiliar part of town, so Dean couldn’t be sure how close it was to his own place or the library. It sucked not having him in the car anymore. Dean missed the heat of Cas’ body next to his — the simplicity of being that close to him, even if it was in a cramped car. He spent the rest of the ride home missing Cas, not to mention mourning the loss of the almost _ -almost _ kiss.

The one at the library was the almost-kiss. The one on the swinging bench was even closer. And here Dean thought it couldn’t have gotten any closer. Damn cock-blocking little brother. And now he had to go home with the very-much-alive memory of the almost _ -almost _ kiss still on his lips.

So close, and yet so far away.

His whole body lamented the loss. His stomach twisted into a knot just thinking about his next time with Cas being too busy to get any time alone. In addition, a dull headache set in, despite his foresight to keep himself hydrated while drinking. He felt lethargic, but whether it was from a full day of constantly moving or disappointment, he couldn’t say.

One thing was certain. He had it bad for Castiel. So bad, in fact, that his body was physically reacting to  _ not  _ being able to kiss him. And he couldn’t deal with how miserable it was making him.

Dean stood at Bee’s door frame and knocked, knowing she was out on the overhang before he even walked in. The window was open. There she sat, quenching her aching body's need for relief from the pain she lived in every day by working on cars. He didn’t wait for a response before trudging in, spotting the top of her head as he came closer to the window.

He leaned on the windowsill, taking in the cooler but no less humid Florida midnight air and the smell of burning weed and paper. The smell didn’t bother him, but he could count on one hand the number of times he had smoked. Usually, he used other coping mechanisms.

Not tonight, though. He didn’t want to drink away the memory. If anything, he wanted to feel everything more intensely. He welcomed the warmth thinking of Cas sent through his veins. But it was spoiled by a desire left unfulfilled, and tonight he wanted to have the high without the pain.

“You got enough to share?” he asked inelegantly.

Bee breathed in around her joint, the cherry burning a slow and even toke under her careful breath. After scooting a few inches away from the center of the ledge she exhaled, the smoky tendrils sinking towards the second story below. Without a word, she glanced over her shoulder and patted the empty spot next to her.


	12. The One With the Haunted Lighthouse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a case of the munchies and a relaxing day at the lake, Dean is more than ready to make the haunted lighthouse trip memorable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen to [Ghostbusters](https://youtu.be/m9We2XsVZfc)

“We can’t make pasta sauce without tomatoes,” Dean muttered in lamentation against the growing munchies.

His and Bee’s conversation had somehow wandered all the way to the bright idea of making spaghetti at eleven o’clock at night. Neither spilled many beans on their respective romantic interest until the weed started taking effect. Now they were both a dangerous combination of nosy, hungry, and just uninhibited enough to over-share.

“The neighbors are growing tomatoes,” Bee pointed out. “They’re in potted plants on their porch.”

“So we’re gonna… what? Climb over and pick their tomatoes?”

“Why not?”

“Are you insane? We can’t pick someone else’s tomatoes.”

“Why not?”

“Because,” Dean snipped defensively, “I’m not a good climber.”

The reasoning didn’t deter Bee. “I’m a good climber. C’mon, let’s do this.” She crawled to the side of the ledge, sizing up the space between them and the second story tomato garden. “You and Castiel do anything fun while the rest of us stayed in that restaurant, arguing about ghost farts?”

“Not fun enough,” Dean mumbled. Bee began her descent, grappling onto laundry air vents and brick grout. When she was far enough away for him to have room to climb, he followed her exact path. Nervous, his hands turned clammy, making it even harder to keep a good grip. “What about you? Charlie’s got a big ol’ lesbian crush on you.”

“We exchanged numbers, so I guess you could say things are getting pretty serious.”

“Alright Kip,” Dean said in a grumble as he momentarily lost his grip on an errant brick. His own moment of opportunity had gone quite differently and it was hard not to become bitter. “The only lesbian I am is ‘less bien’ every goddamn day.”

Bee clutched onto the neighbor’s porch railing and stifled a head-high induced laugh.

“Shaddup.”

“Mr. ‘Dubs, if I had known you were that close to kissing the dude, I would’ve distracted your bro. I promise you. I would’ve — I dunno — asked him to do something pilot-y like recite the phonetic alphabet or something.”

Dean groaned as he pulled himself over the railing right behind Bee. His body was probably angry with him but the marijuana was doing wonders on his pain receptors at the moment, so he couldn’t say for sure. Her sentiment was a good one, but it wouldn’t do any good without a way to identify his hour of greatest need. “How about a code word?”

Bee pried a bright red cherry tomato off their neighbor’s vine. “Carpet in the bathroom.”

Dean grimaced. “Why the hell would anyone put carpet in the bathroom?”

“Exactly! That’s why it’s the perfect code. You start yackin’ about a carpeted bathroom and I’ll make sure Sam remains distracted until you can and Cas can get to the next base.”

“You’re a national treasure,” Dean sighed in relief as he gathered tomatoes of all sizes in both hands. He looked down at the growing collection, doing the math in his head of the number of hands he needed to climb back up, minus the hands full of tomatoes. “Where are we putting all of these?”

Bee looked up from her own bundle cradled between her stomach and one arm. “Crap.”

* * *

Sunday morning at the lake was becoming Dean’s church. He had a line in at first light, with crickets and bullfrogs making up the choir. If there was a more peaceful way to spend the Lord’s Day, he couldn’t imagine what it could be.

After a couple of hours without luck, he set down the fishing pole to sit in his lawn chair and answer a text Charlie had sent him earlier. A turtle poked his head out of the water as Dean decided on a worthy reply to the proposition she had presented.

**From Charlie:** **_Dirt on your roomie for dirt on mine? Pinky promise I won’t tell :)_ **

**To Charlie:** **_We got asked to leave a sub shop because we wouldn’t stop making “that’s what she said” jokes_ **

**From Charlie:** **_Are you gonna elaborate on that or what? Lol_ **

Dean sniffed out a laugh at the memory. They _were_ being loud, in the sub manager’s defense. But it wasn’t their fault the guy had no sense of humor.

-

“Golly gee wilikers, this thing’s huge,” Bee had said as soon as they sat down at the table with their sandwiches that fateful day.

Dean went with the knee-jerk reflex based on years of corrupting perfectly normal phrases. “That’s what she said.”

Bee snorted a laugh, looking around them to see how many people picked up on it. By the looks of it, not many, and whoever did was acting like it didn’t happen. Prudes.

Unwrapping his sandwich to find that it was indeed as enormous as Bee had warned, Dean attempted a brave first bite, hoping to get at least a little of each ingredient. “Howwy cwaph,” he mumbled around a mouthful. “I can burrly get m’ mouwf awound difs thing.”

“That’s what she said.”

Dean choked on his food laughing, although he had no one else to blame but himself. He really did walk right into that one. He washed it down with a sip out of his soda, eyes falling on the wrapped pickle in the middle of the table.

Bee picked up on the stare and shoved it across the table. “It was free,” she shrugged. “You can have it.”

“I’m the one who’s into phallic-shaped objects anyways,” Dean said, drawing the attention of several more people sitting nearby. He cleared his throat and made as much noise as he could unwrapping the thing.

Bee glanced this way and that, keenly aware of how much attention they had drawn to themselves.

Dean gasped wantonly at the dripping green delicacy. “So juicy.”

“That’s what she said.”

The pickle crunched between his teeth. Perfect amount of snap. “Hm, not as salty as I expected.” His eyes flew up to Bee. “Don’t you dare.”

She paused, taking her time to note that every last person in the sub shop was staring at them. A chuckle slipped out before she covered it with a cough. “That’s what she said.”

Someone uniformed in subway sandwich shop colors came out from behind the counter, approaching them with a sharply disapproving glare. Yep, they were getting banned from this place, too.

-

**To Charlie:** **_Nope. You first_ **

**From Charlie:** **_Did Castiel ever tell you about the day at Drag Queen Storytime where basically all the queens started hitting on him? Out of all of them he somehow manages to befriend the only one that ends up actually being a woman?? But he didn’t know because they were all done up SO GOOD and at that point he honest to God thought he was getting to know a nice twink with naturally pretty cheekbones. But anyways she was a lady… THEIR ROAD MANAGER TO BE EXACT_ **

**To Charlie:** **_…_ **

**To Charlie:** **_excuse me what_ **

**To Charlie:** **_you wanna elaborate on that or...?_ **

**From Charlie:** **_You first ;)_ **

* * *

By Wednesday Sam had filled Dean in on everything he needed to know about the ghost hunt ahead. The DVD Sam had borrowed from the library, several informative links, and a business card from a couple of eccentric characters called the Ghostfacers — Dean had seen them all. So far he wasn’t convinced this whole shindig wasn’t a total waste of time, seeing how most of the “evidence of the paranormal” Sam had supplied could be explained away.

But any chance Dean had to see Cas wasn’t a waste of time.

He looked forward to being home at last with a couple of hours to unwind before meeting up with the group for the lighthouse investigation. He looked forward to manspreading on the couch, mindlessly staring at the television. _Ah, yes. My beloved couch,_ he mused before swinging the apartment door open and eyes falling to the highly anticipated piece of furniture — the one that Bee and Charlie were currently curled up on.

Dean did a double take. “Uh,” he murmured as he stepped inside and closed the door. “Did I miss the slumber party memo? I could’ve brought nail polish.”

“I could’ve brought the Red Scare if you had the gaming console,” Charlie responded without missing a beat. She and Bee sat there, relaxed against each other. They watched TV at a comfortable volume, a blanket over Charlie and a bowl in Bee’s lap.

“Huh,” Dean breathed an open-mouthed hum and looked down in thought. “The Library of Things will have it.”

Charlie looked surprised at first, and then not so much. “I was gonna make a smooth comment about how your roomie is entertaining enough as it is, but now I’m gonna make a comment about how much my roomie has rubbed off on you.”

Although it was true and he knew it, Dean feigned defensiveness. “Hey, alright, that’s enough. Bee, is this chick bothering you?”

“Man, it sure is muggy outside,” Bee deflected, glancing towards the porch.

Dean’s eyes bounced from the vertical blinds blocking his view outside back to the couch inhabitants, who were both focusing suspiciously hard on the TV. “I swear to God, if every coffee mug we have is on our porch…” He let the half-sentence hang in the air as he dragged his feet across the room and began opening the blinds.

Bee lifted her unnecessarily large bowl to take a sip of coffee.

* * *

A Dean ten or fifteen years younger would have thought nothing of starting a date at ten o’clock at night. But at thirty five, rejuvenation was a delayed reaction, even with a full night of sleep. The lighthouse investigation would start promptly at ten and end at two, but even if they got out on time, that left him with only five hours of sleep before getting up for work.

He had resigned to the possibility of no sleep, especially if the youngsters of the group decided to keep the party going after the investigation was over. Worst case, he’d be a zombie at work the next day. On the bright side, it was more time to get his face on Castiel’s.

He, Cas, Sam, Eileen, Charlie, and Bee all stood at the bottom of the long, spiral staircase. Everyone had their own flashlight, but Sam had them all beat by way of paranormal gear. At some point during the week, he had collected a myriad of supplies, including a GoPro, digital voice recorder, and EMF meter, all of which he pulled out of his backpack upon entering the lighthouse.

Cue the Ghostbuster references. “Let me guess,” Dean said, shining his light on all of Sam’s strange devices. “Don’t cross the streams?”

“Oo,” Charlie exclaimed, “I want the voice recorder.”

Sam strapped the GoPro to his head and handed the recorder to Charlie and the EMF meter to Eileen. “Let the rest of us know if you get anything,” he said, not directing it to anyone in particular. “I’ll be over as soon as I can with the camera.”

Dean tilted his head to whisper at Cas, who had poked around at the recorder Charlie held before coming over to stand by Dean’s side. “Man, Sam sure is taking this seriously.”

“I think I got something,” Charlie said, pointing the recorder toward Dean. “Class-A EVP. Pretty sure it said ‘I’m a skeptic but I’m in the dark with the cute guy I like so… booyah’.”

They began their ascent with surprising quiet for a group their size. The whole thing felt straight out of a ghost documentary, minus the ominous music that gave one the creeps just by listening. The long spiral staircase taking them 165 feet in the air looped on and on, beyond what their flashlights could see, adding to the nagging unknown that lay just beyond the physical senses.

As they approached the first landing, an overhead light abruptly turned on, earning startled gasps out of all but Sam.

“It’s just the automatic light,” he attempted to comfort them, but with a smirk in his voice.

“Would’a been nice to know before now,” Dean grumbled. He and most everyone else turned off their now-useless flashlights before continuing their journey. It was only after the group began moving that he realized he had smashed himself up against Cas’ shoulder in fright. Clearing his throat, Dean stepped away from the solid body behind him and tried very hard to forget how nice it felt.

Once he put a respectable distance between him and Cas, he felt a hand fall from his waist. _Cas’ hand._ Wait, Cas put his _hand_ around his _waist?_ Merciful Lord in heaven, how was Dean supposed to focus on a ghost hunt when Cas was touching him? Dean was so jumpy he hadn’t even noticed — not until he moved forward enough for Cas’ hand to fall away.

God-fucking-dammit. Dean hated his life. He hated it so much.

“Guys,” Eileen said while staring at the EMF meter, “come look at this.”

The rest of them huddled in, peeking over her shoulders as the needle spiked. Reaching around Eileen, Charlie clicked the digital voice recorder to ON and held it at the same distance as the meter.

“Say something,” she prompted. “Your name, how you died, favorite porn star… Whatever. We’re not picky.”

The group stood absolutely still on the landing for a few seconds, not doing so much as taking a loud breath. When Eileen’s meter flatlined back to zero, Charlie clicked OFF and then REPLAY on the recorder. It was mostly just white noise, but right before the end, a staticy auditory anomaly rang over the replay.

“What did it say?” Bee asked barely above a whisper and with her flashlight on the recorder, despite the fact that the overhead light was on and there was no point in being quiet anymore.

Dean stepped forward, puffing himself up. “I’m no expert, but it sounded a lot like ‘Sam’s a little bitch’.”

“Actually,” Sam replied, “I’m pretty sure it said Dean’s a jerk.”

Able to read their lips in the welcomed light, Eileen piped up, “It definitely said the latter. Even a deaf person could tell.”

Cas made a tiny pained noise behind Dean in solidarity. Dean was about to make a retort, whether to Sam, Eileen, or both, he hadn’t decided — when the overhead light blinked twice before shutting completely off, leaving them in utter darkness, exception being Bee’s lone flashlight.

“Um,” Eileen said in trepidation, “was that supposed to happen?”

Sam swallowed, turning on his flashlight and leading the others up the next staircase. “Let’s keep going.”

Once again enveloped in darkness, everyone else turned on their flashlights. Together they roamed amid the eerie quiet that came with the emptiness of a lighthouse by the sea. The second landing was less eventful, yielding no spikes on the EMF meter or raspy voices from the great beyond. On the way up the final spiral upward, Dean’s thighs started burning. Ghosts or not, this lighthouse’s keeper never skipped leg day.

“I saw something!” Eileen exclaimed, pointing her flashlight towards the observation tower. “I think it’s Maria!”

Dean blinked. “Who?”

“The first female lighthouse keeper,” Charlie supplied. “Yay, girl power.”

Sam looked up, pointing the GoPro in the same direction as Eileen’s light. “Legend has it, she hangs out on the observation deck in a white dress with her hair down.”

“That’s the creepiest thing I’ve heard all night, thank you,” Dean mumbled. He took a step back, only to run into Castiel’s hand _again,_ but this time neither made any moves to change that.

“Let’s go,” Cas suggested in his ear as Eileen separated from the group to investigate the deck herself.

Well, if it involved Cas being this close to him, Dean supposed it was worth the risk. He squared up and began the final trek upward, followed closely by Cas, whose hand remained on his waist. Dean took the stairs slowly, as to not step out of Cas’ reach like he did earlier.

“We’ll be up in a minute,” Sam said after them, and Dean rolled his eyes at the thought of his brother ruining another perfect moment. “I wanna try another recording session. Charlie, ask for Eliza and Mary this time.”

Dean did little more than grunt in return, his focus split between the apparition Eileen claimed to see and Castiel’s warm hand. It was like electricity surging through him, just that one light touch, but it was the only thing he could feel. He was high on it, mind consumed with wanting more. If a full-bodied apparition appeared before his very eyes he would be none the wiser. Right then, Castiel was the only thing his senses responded to.

Once he, Cas, and Eileen reached the observation deck they were met with the lighthouse’s blinding light, paired with the hypnotic crashing waves. The sun was long gone, giving no light to what laid beyond; only the sounds of the ocean on which travelers depended on that lone light to guide their way.

Dean just stared into the blackness for a moment, eyes adjusting until he was almost sure he could see the reflection of a wave in the moon’s light — or maybe it was his imagination. Either way, it was drop-dead romantic. Castiel’s hand tightened around him. He melted a little.

“Dammit,” Eileen muttered as she paced the deck. “I saw her, I swear.”

“Eileen!” Sam’s voice boomed from the landing below. “Dean, we need Eileen’s EMF meter! Charlie got something.”

“We got one,” Dean trilled in Janine’s nasally accent before signing _Sam is calling for you._ Eileen nodded and hurried down the steps. He waited a few seconds, suspicious of her return, but she did no such thing. He could barely see the shine of flashlights as they conveniently ignored everything happening above the second landing.

He turned to Cas, their faces half-illuminated by the lighthouse beacon, half enveloped by the night sky. For a few long moments, the battering waves were the only sound to be heard. A salty breeze blew across their faces. It was a reprieve from the humid Florida June air, but it also swept Cas’ hair in a particularly beautiful way.

Dean exhaled sharply. Damn this man, who could wreck him with a single touch — no, with even less than that — a single look that sent him spiraling like the lighthouse stairs they had climbed. Damn him for driving him insane for every moment they could have spent tangled in each other’s arms. Damn it all, because this was finally happening — he knew so, because Castiel took one final step forward and held Dean’s waist with _both_ hands.

Dean couldn’t think of a single reason to wait a moment longer.

He tilted his head just enough and gently pressed his lips to Castiel’s. His hand snaked around Cas’ neck, just to convince himself he wasn’t dreaming because Cas’ lips were just that perfect. They tingled with every drag against each other. Their soft firmness contrasted with the coarse scruff above Cas’ lip, a small portion of the man’s eternal five-o’clock shadow, but Dean decided very early on he didn’t mind the burn.

Unable to hold back the thrill, Dean hummed against Cas’ mouth. It turned out to be a good idea after all, as Cas responded by pressing his hands to the small of Dean’s back, pulling them flush with each other. The heat of Cas’ body against his earned a gasp out of him. Dean held Cas’ face in his hands as they kissed, desperate for more and unwilling to lose this even for a second.

Every pleased noise exchanged between them, every grasp and drag of fingers and lips, built the tension of the friction between them. This desire threading through their bodies had begun at the mouth, yes, but flowed downward with every inch pressed together, trailing through their hands and pooling deep in their bellies.

“Cas,” Dean gasped as he came up for air. His thumb and forefinger held Cas’ chin. He couldn’t stop staring at the lips he had just kissed, now slick with spit and slightly parted. They were even more beautiful than before. That mouth gaped for breaths _he_ kissed away. _Him._ Dean had kissed him, _finally._

“The others,” Cas rasped. “They’ll be up here soon.”

Dean shook his head vehemently, only dropping his hands from around Cas to fish his phone out of his pocket and pressed CALL on Bee’s name. “Oh no, they won’t.”

-

Eileen’s EMF reading came up empty and Charlie’s recording session yielded another scratchy sentence no one could make out. Sam and the girls were on the verge of beginning the last staircase to the top of the lighthouse when Bee’s phone started blaring “Back In Black”.

Charlie, Sam, and Eileen turned, shining their flashlights on Bee. She glanced at the screen, took a fleeting glance at Sam, and answered.

“Mr. ‘Dubs?”

“Put it on speaker,” Sam suggested. “He might’ve found something up there.”

Bee rolled her eyes, but obliged, if nothing else than to keep his suspicions low. “You’re on blast, Dean.”

“Can’t believe these freaks used carpets in the bathroom,” Dean’s irritated voice rang out to the group. “Who the hell does that? Have keepers never heard of water damage? They live two feet from the friggin’ ocean.”

Bee swallowed, then looked at Sam again, pressing END CALL. The obvious question hung there in the silence, waiting for anyone of them to ask. Sam’s furrowed brows asked it. Charlie and Eileen’s collective look of pure confusion asked it. But Bee didn’t wait long enough for anyone to ask what the hell Dean was on about.

“Sam,” she addressed with absolute authority. “Recite the phonetic alphabet.”

“What? Why—”

“Do it for the ghosts! Maybe some of them were in the navy or… something. It might wake them up.”

Sam opened and closed his mouth a couple of times, sounds dying on his tongue before they could become words, before giving up on questioning her method. He straightened his back and cleared his throat. “Alpha, Bravo, Charlie, Delta…”

-

On the observation deck, Dean slipped his phone back into his pocket and wrapped his arms around Cas. Just those few seconds were too long to spend even an inch away from him.

“What did you do?” Castiel asked, eyes flitting from Dean’s eyes to his mouth.

“Buying us a little more time,” Dean replied before kissing him once again.


	13. The One With Truncation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a successful date at the lighthouse, Dean learns that he has earned the librarian's favor... in more ways than one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen to [Feel Like Making Love](https://youtu.be/OEPvv9pjIoQ)

Dean got no sleep that night. Worth it, though.

What time he didn’t spend staring at the shower tiles as steam billowed around him, he spent wide awake in bed with the bedside lamp on. He re-read the same paragraph in his romance novel at least eighteen times before giving up. There was no way he was absorbing information or falling asleep. Not with the memory of Castiel’s kisses still prickling his lips.

From the second his alarm went off he knew he was screwed. His body was exhausted — lethargic limbs, itchy eyes, and soreness from the many stairs he climbed — but his mind was wide awake. He debated how badly work actually needed him, given how useless he would be, but decided to give it a try anyway.

It turned out to be about as awful as he anticipated. At some point, he stopped trying to do hard things like math and problem solving, delegating those tasks to a handful of others and stuck with the grunt work. It was unlike him but screw it; someone’s pipeline was bound to end up in Kalamazoo with the way his brain was functioning today.

The second wind he was counting on never came. He biked back home and collapsed on the couch. Lost sleep over the past two days, including the late-night tomato hunt, being with Cas at the lighthouse, and not being able to calm down afterward all caught up with him. Thankfully, he had the forethought to set an alarm before dozing off, which woke him up in just enough time to throw himself together for his weekly night of volunteering at the library.

He felt marginally better as he showered off work grime and the stale feeling that came with an overdue nap. Now that he was rested, he could think about good things to come, like seeing Castiel that evening. It gave him all the motivation he needed.

As soon as he walked through the library doors, he was glad he didn’t flake out. The old familiar scenery was comforting, with the front display being one of the only things noticeably different from week to week. This time it was decked out in rainbows with a wide spread of books with LGBT focus.

“Hi Dean,” Hannah greeted him from behind the circulation desk. 

“Hey,” he replied with a nod in her direction. “I dig the Pride Month display.”

She smiled. “Oh, that one was Castiel. But his displays always turn out great. Speaking of which,” she paused to take a quick look around, “he said he had a job for you. I saw him in Reference a few minutes ago, but there’s no telling where he’s off to now.”

Dean blinked away the vision playing across his mind of backing Cas into another corner and making out until someone coughed conspicuously behind them. “I’ll find him,” he told her before heading in that direction.

He found Castiel answering a patron’s question in Periodicals and chilled nearby until he was done. At least, Dean chilled as much as he could with Cas looking  _ like that.  _ The asshole loved dressing up and had no business looking that good, especially when Dean already knew he didn’t like showing PDA at his workplace.

Castiel had on colored denim, a shade brighter than baby pink, like delicate flosses of cotton candy, cuffed at the ankles with brown shoes. Up top, he wore a light blue and white striped button-up with a darker blue blazer. Dean swore under his breath. As if he didn’t suffer enough as it was, now he had learned something new about himself — that he loved a man in pink. This man in particular.

Dean casually mosied over after the patron left with her questions answered, as if Castiel pulling off that particular look didn’t put Dean in the mood to pull it off of his body. God help him. Tonight was going to be pure torture.

“Heya Cas,” he said with a smirk. “Long time, no ghost hunt.”

Cas turned his body towards Dean and put his hands in his pockets. “Dean,” he said thoughtfully. “I have several propositions for you.”

_ Yes to almost certainly all,  _ he almost chuckled out loud, then reluctantly pulled his mind out of the gutter. “Proposate away.”

If Cas showed any bother to the imaginary word, it was minimal. He was mostly all perfect posture and neutral composure as always. “June is Pride Month.”

Dean’s eyes flashed briefly towards the front. “Yes, it is.”

“It is also Aquarium Month.”

Dean blinked, narrowing his eyes. “Okay?”

“The front display will remain as-is for the next couple of weeks,” Castiel elaborated. “But we will need an aquarium-themed display for the last week of the month. I thought… maybe if you’d like…” He swallowed. “You don’t have to.”

This time, Dean’s eyes widened in realization. “You’re letting me design a display?”

Cas shuffled in place, the closest to fidgeting Dean had ever seen him. “If you find the idea agreeable.”

He couldn’t believe his ears. Designing the front display had been so high on the “Castiel’s Turf” list, he hadn’t let himself entertain the thought in weeks. He figured it was too elite, or Castiel was just too picky about its execution to trust it to a run-of-the-mill volunteer.

“Hell yeah, I find the idea agreeable.”

“Excellent,” Cas said before going right into his next mental bullet point. “I would also like to know if you would be willing to facilitate the book sales on your volunteer nights. Organization, cash handling…”

“I might or might not get distracted occasionally.” His first night of volunteering still replayed fresh in his mind, and to say it was the last time a book diverted his attention from the task at hand would be an outright lie. 

“It is forgivable, given the abundance of temptation.”

“Alright, two new jobs,” Dean summarized. He couldn’t help but swell with pride. Manning the book sales every week instead of odd jobs? Creating his very own front display? He must’ve made quite a splash at the lighthouse to have earned this favor with the librarian.

Cas hesitated for a beat, then said quickly, “There is one more thing.”

Dean raised a brow.

“When one has a term to pursue but desires a wider range of results, one would leave off the last letter and replace it with an asterisk. It’s called truncation.”

So far, the request wasn’t making sense, but it made his heart flutter to see Cas fumbling about with oddly specific terms. Dean wasn’t sure how Cas managed to make definitions sexy, but there he was. Somehow the expectancy of it all had Dean holding his breath, knowing whatever it was could likely be simplified into layman’s terms, but liking Cas’ method even better.

“You and me,” Castiel continued. “That is my subject of interest. And you must know, I did enjoy our time last night.”  _ Was that a blush on his cheeks?  _ “So much in fact, that I wish to broaden the range of results. Truncate ‘you and me’ and we get ‘group date’ as one of many results. There are other scenarios possible; ‘you and me’ having a date alone, ‘you and me’ at home, to name a few. If you would want to… I would love it if we’d…”

Taking one hand out of his pocket, Dean held his fist against his mouth, mostly to keep from squealing like a three-year-old. “Yes,” he blurted, because  _ Castiel just asked to date him.  _ Like  _ boyfriends.  _

“Y-yes?” Cas seemed unsure he heard Dean right.

Dean dropped his fist and let his wide grin show. “Yes Cas, I want to  _ truncate  _ us. God, you’re such a nerd.”

Castiel let out a heavy breath. “Wonderful.”

Interest beyond the first date was a butterfly-in-the-stomach inducing conversation, and the aftershocks made a giggle or two bubble into Dean’s throat, which he suppressed into manlier chuckles. “Awesome,” he said, unable to wipe the smile from his face.

Nodding in agreement, Cas pocketed his hands and bounced on the balls of his feet for a beat. “Shall we go up front and get your cash box set up for the book sales?”

Dean had seen it, a small room between the circulation desk and front doors that clearly distinguished the books inside as separate from the rest of the library. He hadn’t done much more than dust in there, but that didn’t stop him from flipping through a few pages when he was sure Hannah wasn’t looking. All he needed to familiarize himself with was the cash handling, and well, that wouldn’t take long.

He knew there were zero chances of making out with Cas in a glass-walled room where people inside  _ and  _ outside could see them. He knew better than to ask. But he did anyway.

Dean took two broad strides into Cas’ space. “How ‘bout we get your mouth set up for some kissing?”

Cas stood motionless, except for the way the corner of his mouth twitched up, so quickly Dean would have missed it if he had blinked. “Not here,” he rumbled softly.

The heat coming off of Cas was intoxicating, even without a touch. Dean’s skin tingled with the memory of Cas’ firm chest on his. Hands around him, gripping his sides, pulling them flush against each other amid the sea breeze. Dean glanced down past Castiel’s mouth, to the blazer and buttoned shirt he so desperately wanted to tear off.

“The bathroom’s pretty quiet right before closing,” Dean’s voice blew barely above a whisper.

He didn’t think Cas would budge in his resolve. He figured the attempt was worth a shot but futile. Until Castiel’s brow shot up.

“So it is,” he agreed, to Dean’s utter disbelief. “I suppose you may abandon your post early, if there are no patrons browsing the books for sale.”

And  _ boom,  _ they just made a makeout session appointment. Dean stepped back, dragging his bottom lip through his teeth. “See you then, Cas.”

* * *

He couldn’t remember the last time he made out with someone in the bathroom, but he was pretty sure it was high school. Something about it was exciting — the sneaking around, or perhaps the possibility of being caught — and it made Dean’s heart beat even wilder as he pushed Cas further into a stall corner with hands grasping at clothes and tongues licking into each other’s mouths.

Their clutches were benign, more to express irritation at the presence of clothes than to begin the process of removing them. Castiel yanked fistfuls of Dean’s shirt to pull him even closer, and Dean responded in kind, holding Cas’ face at just the right angle to delve into his perfect mouth.

Cas had slipped into the bathroom several minutes prior, noticed only by Dean, whose eyes had been fixed on that general vicinity for the last thirty minutes. Hannah was none the wiser when Dean left his post, assuming he wanted to get a bathroom break in before having to bike all the way back home.

Dean growled in annoyance at the number of layers between him and Castiel. He ran Cas’ lapels between his fingers and thumbs. “Won’t you please take this goddamn thing off?”

Only delaying for a second, Cas shrugged off the blazer and hung it over the stall door. “That’s all you get for now.”

The man’s steadfastness in remaining hard to get was admirable, if not infuriating. “You sure you don’t wanna take this back to your place? Or my place? One of the ‘you and me’ things you wanted was ‘at home’ if memory serves me.”

Castiel kissed him again. The hundredth time was just as electrifying as the first. “I don’t usually.”

“What? Take it back to your place?”

“Don’t usually  _ want to  _ take it back to my place,” Cas clarified.

Dean loosened his grip. “Oh,” he puffed.

Cas’ eyes widened as he backtracked. “No, you misunderstand. I  _ do  _ want to. Which is why this is so terrifying. It’s not all that familiar of a feeling.”

Brows furrowed in thought, Dean held Cas’ waist and enjoyed the absence of the totally unnecessary blazer while trying to decipher exactly what Cas was saying. “You don’t usually get the hankering’ to jump someone’s bones?”

“You are on a very,  _ very  _ short list of people I’ve had the urge to do that to, yes,” Cas replied, blue eyes intently watching his. 

It occurred to Dean that Cas was gauging his response. The thought crossed his mind that perhaps not one hundred percent of Cas playing hard to get was him  _ actually  _ playing hard to get; maybe a small percentage was him trying to come to terms with what his downstairs brain was telling him. 

“So you’re into dudes, but it’s not an everyday thing to see a guy and think, oh man, I really wanna stick his dick in my mouth,” Dean paraphrased. 

“Precisely.”

A half-smile perked up across Dean’s face. Maybe he needed to knock his ego down a peg, but the honor of earning the sexual attraction of the one and only Librarian Castiel made him feel kind of good. Like he made the cut or something.

Dean cradled Cas’ head in one hand, running his thumb over Cas’ bottom lip. “I don’t want you to be scared. We can take it to your place — or mine — whenever you’re ready.”

Castiel seemed happy with that, as he let out a small huff of air and pulled Dean close again by his clothes. “It’s almost nine and we haven’t spent nearly enough time kissing.”

* * *

“Another shot!”

“You go on right ahead,” said Bee in her bean bag chair as Dark Side of the Moon played on the turntable.

Dean knocked another one back, courtesy of the souvenir shot glass he bought in Miami. He whooped as the burn trailed down his throat. “Here’s to a successful session of smooching,” he said as he plopped down onto the sofa. “And future sessions of bangin’ him on every flat surface in his apartment.”

“Here here,” Bee humored him with an amused smirk, clinking her glass of water against his shot glass. “Have I ever told you how much of an improvement you are over my last roommate?”

“No,” Dean said before he really thought about it. Whiskey got him drunk fast, but even so, he was positive they hadn’t had this conversation before. “Wha-was ‘is name?”

“Sal Moriarty,” Bee replied, reclined in her bean bag and tapping her glass with an index finger. The fidgeting motion was the last bout of anxious energy she manifested for the night. “He was no fun, man.”

Dean stared disapprovingly at his tiny empty glass. “He touch your stuff or something?” It was a juvenile question but the more he thought about it, the more valid it sounded. One of the very few rules Bee insisted on going into this renting agreement was to stay out of her stuff. Dean always had, but usually, an oddly specific rule like that was there because someone beforehand made it necessary.

“Yeah,” she acknowledged. “He was an ol’ Bible thumper. Tried proselytizing me and when that didn’t work, he got me evicted. Sent me away with one of his Bibles.”

“Damn,” Dean rasped. His alcohol-riddled mind pictured it all: Bee getting kicked out, gathering what few things she could and riding her motorcycle until she came across Dean’s “Roommate Wanted” poster, stapled to a stop sign and in exactly the right place at the right time. 

But of the few things of hers he had seen around their place, the holy scriptures wasn’t one of them. “What’d you do with the Bible?”

Bee smiled. “Rolled the pages into joints. I’m halfway through Deuteronomy.”

Dean laughed, tickled by the fact that he had held one of them in his hand the night he smoked with her outside her window, but not at all surprised. Besides, it was sort of poetic to use the pages of something that had caused emotional pain to take away physical pain. “If I meet the dick I’m gonna kick his ass.”

Bee lifted her glass, holding it out for him to take. “If you don’t drink some water you’ll hate yourself in the mornin’.”

“Yeah yeah,” he mocked, eyeing it disdainfully before downing it all in a few thick gulps. “Hurricane season just started and you’re worried about me getting enough water.”

Before he could muster enough brainpower to set both empty glasses on the floor, Dean felt the overwhelming urge to curl up against the couch cushions and go to sleep. He lay there in a ball, cuddling two glass cups and snoring before he could fully form the sleepy thought that whatever the religious freak found in Bee’s room must have upset him enough to get her gone. 

And whatever got her kicked out must be why she wouldn’t let anyone snoop through her stuff ever again.


	14. The One With the Burglar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean falls soundly asleep on the couch but is awakened with frightening news.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen to [Shelter Me](https://youtu.be/fgi5xdftOIA?t=12)

Dean was jostled awake, the sound of Bee hissing his name startling him into an upright position. He jumped at the sound of glass cups clinking nearby but realized he was exactly where he had fallen asleep a few short hours before. It was still dark — the middle of the night, if he had to guess — but Bee’s urgent tone put his body in fight-or-flight mode immediately.

“What? What?” he mumbled, eyes still crusty from sleep.

“Someone’s trying to get in,” she whispered back.

Dean began to rub his eyes but halted when he heard it: the light rattle of the doorknob from outside their apartment. He scrambled off the couch, never minding the glasses rolling against each other, and stepped lightly to the peephole in the door. The rattling had stopped and there was no one outside.

“What the hell?” he said under his breath to no one in particular.

Bee scooted up, taking her turn peeping into the breezeway. “How’d they get away so fast?”

“I don’t know.” Dean stepped behind the couch and began to push it towards the door. “But we need to block the door with something if they get passed the lock.”

Bee helped him push the couch the rest of the way. Whoever it was would have a hell of a time getting past that, even with an unlocked door. They froze as the metallic jiggling started up again, this time followed by light scratching.

As soon as Dean leaned over the couch to look outside, the noises stopped. Not a soul was in the breezeway. “Son of a bitch, he’s quick.”

The apartment went quiet once again, without as much as the air conditioning to fill the eerie void the unwelcome guest left. Both stood still, waiting for another try at the door, but it never came. Shaken but slowly beginning to believe the burglar gave up, both of them breathed easier, taking a step or two away from the door.

Everything was peaceful. 

Until it wasn’t.

Bee gasped at a loud thump right above their heads, like some _ one _ or some _ thing _ collapsed onto the roof. But the roof was vaulted and the noise was too close to come from there. It was just on the other side of the ceiling — barely four feet from their heads.

Dean tried to reason it away, toying with the possibility that their apartment might have a storage attic that maintenance had to access. But even if the vaulted overhead space was functional, no one would be up there in the middle of the night. Not with good intentions.

His eyes wandered from the area of the noise to the closest air vent.  _ Nah,  _ he thought.  _ They’re too small. Nobody can fit through those things. You’ve been watching too many horror movies. Even if he could peek his beady little eyes in there like a creeper, there’s no way he could actually — _

The metal vent rattled.

“Dammit,” Dean gasped, embarrassed at how hard he flinched at the sudden noise. His eyes were adjusted to their dark apartment and darted around, looking for a makeshift self-defense weapon. “Get something we can hit the guy with.”

The two separated to search their respective rooms, Bee returning into the hallway with a small gardening spade and a crowbar. Meager as the weapons were, Dean came back with even worse. He dragged his feet as he emerged from his room, prepared for persecution as he clutched a fishing pole to his chest.

Bee’s shoulders sagged. “What are you going to do with that? Poke his eye out?”

“What’s the shovel for? Burying the body out back?” he retorted. “Or are we just gonna throw him out your window to his death?”

Instead of responding, Bee looked off to the side and became unnervingly quiet. After thinking for a moment she fixed her eyes intently towards her room, an unspoken worry written across her face.

“Bee,” Dean’s tone turned alarmed, “you locked your window, right?”

She turned to face him, wincing. “Um…”

Dean exhaled sharply, stomping towards her room with the fishing pole in hand. He didn’t bother with the light switch and walked straight to the window. It was closed but unlocked. He turned the latch, satisfied that they were now safe from anyone climbing in from here on out, but not convinced they hadn’t already sneaked in.

He swallowed, the apartment falling into another uncomfortable silence as he turned to see Bee standing close by with her spade and crowbar. “We should probably call the cops.”

“No,” she said immediately. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

Dean’s brows wrinkled in confusion, but he didn’t have time to dwell on it before another sound startled them. This time it came from the kitchen, and it sounded like a bunch of stuff in their pantry falling to the floor in a heap of boxes, bags, and cans.

“We’ve gotta hide,” Dean did an awful job at whispering. It was more like a raspy yelp and did nothing to keep their plan of action a secret, but at this point he was running on adrenaline. He snapped his head around, looking for somewhere to go. Whoever it was could get from the kitchen to them in a matter of seconds, so leaving Bee’s room was out of the question.

She slammed the door, taking a cautious step back when the person on the other side began to jiggle the doorknob. “Alright, here’s the deal,” she directed, walking towards her closet. “We hide in here, and you do not turn on the light, you do not ask questions, and you never speak about it again.”

“Fine, whatever,” Dean agreed hurriedly. As soon as Bee opened the closet door he crawled from the dark room into an even darker corner, holding his fishing pole upright and bringing his knees to his chest. His face hit what he assumed to be clothes, and he knocked them out of the way a couple of times before giving in to them and just sat tight while Bee shut them inside.

She huddled into his corner as well, armed with the iron crowbar and garden spade as the rattling doorknob kept their breath bated and hearts pounding. After a few seconds, it went quiet again and Dean took a much-needed breath, only to inhale the smell of what he was almost certain was dirt. He might have been scared out of his mind, but yep, that was definitely dirt.

He swatted at the clothes in his face again, only to find that whatever was brushing against him were too thin to be clothes. It was impossible to tell in the pitch dark, of course, but he was also pretty sure they were small pieces, not wide cuts like hanging shirts.

“Bee?” he whispered, this time quietly. “What is this?”   
  


“I said no questions,” she said flatly.

Dean reached his hand out against the blackness, touching the mysterious texture. There were hundreds of them, all small and smooth and occasionally something straight and sturdy, like a stalk. His hand brushed past what was probably the string that pulled the light on.

“Bee,” he said again, this time more stern. “What the hell is all this?”

Dean’s phone buzzed softly in his pocket. He drew it out to see a text from Eileen.

**From Eileen:** **_Sorry to text you so late. Just a heads up, a raccoon got in our building and he’s trying to get into the apartments. Animal Control knows and they’re on their way :)_ **

He read and reread the text, shock and disbelief mounting with every word. 

Raccoon.

They were being terrorized by _ a friggin’ raccoon. _

“Aw hell,” Dean grumbled, stuffing the phone back into his pocket. “Our burglar out there is Ranger Rick, here to loot our pantry.”

He felt the press of Bee’s shoulder as she relaxed against the closet wall. Her crowbar and spade hit the floor with a clang. She gave no response at first, just as whiplashed as he was by the fright that turned to awkward embarrassment within seconds. After a few seconds, he heard her holding an open-mouthed laugh behind her hand.

“Yeah yeah, go ahead,” he droned. “You think this is funny?”

“It’s a little funny,” she choked, body shaking with laughter.

Dean rolled his eyes, despite the fact that neither of them could see as much as their hand in front of their faces. He took another deep breath, this time noticing a very distinctive smell he wasn’t sure how he missed during all his breaths beforehand. He was so accustomed to the smell by now, he didn’t think anything of it. Reaching into the dark once more, he ran his fingers up one of the mystery stalks until he reached a resin-sticky cluster.

“Bee,” he said seriously enough to halt her giggling. “Is this a marijuana plant?”

Bee pulled the hanging string, snapping the light on. Dean blinked against the brightness and simply moved his eyes, not even having to turn his head to see what he was sitting in the middle of. On every side, all around him, were potted marijuana plants. Dozens of them, from the closet entrance all the way into the corners. Baby ones, fully mature ones, and everything in between. 

They were huddled between two massive ones with thick, sticky buds. Craning his neck up, he spotted more baby plants on the shelf, as well as three lamps shining down on them all, warming the closet and providing them with artificial light. He squinted against the lights as he took it all in.

Her closet was a grow house and he was sitting in it.

“Explains the tiny garden shovel,” he mumbled.

He cocked his head to the side to get Bee’s reaction, but it wasn’t the happy-go-lucky one he was anticipating. She sat with her arms resting against her knees, expression carefully schooled into something forcefully neutral. The unexpected response — or lack thereof — was unsettling, and he coughed out a fake laugh to cut through the tension in the air.

“Y-you okay over there, Sativa Diva?”

“You tell me,” she finally said with a shrug. “Should I start packing?”

Dean blinked. “Because you grow your own weed instead of buying it from hell-knows-where and have to worry about whether it’s crap bud, or synthetic, or friggin’ oregano? Hold up,” he realized, sitting up straighter. “Your last roommate got you evicted for this?”

Bee made finger guns. “Ding ding.”

“I’m definitely gonna kick that guy’s ass.”

“You ain’t mad? Not even a little?” she asked disbelievingly. “We split utilities too, which means you’re paying for half of the lamplight in here.”

“Ten bucks says that ain’t the reason Preacher Sal kicked you out,” Dean deadpanned. Bee looked away. “Uh-huh, that’s what I thought.”

“Look,” she said, holding up her palms. “I know it don’t have to be that big of a deal —”

“No, it doesn’t.”

“But he made it a big deal,” Bee concluded.

Dean nodded, a lip curling up in distaste. “That’s par for the course for religious fanatics. He deserves all his Bible pages to get rolled into joints.”

She looked down, smiling a little at last. Stretching out one leg, she nudged the closet door open, letting in cooler air and shining light into her otherwise dark room. Neither of them said anything, as there was nothing left to say. Her “no snooping around rule” was made necessary by someone else’s coldheartedness. Having that boundary was nothing against Dean personally; she just had to be careful so the same thing wouldn’t happen twice.

But the moment both of them were certain danger was literally knocking at their door, she took a chance. They were under threat and she threw him into the grow room that she had so carefully kept secret. Almost like she valued his life enough to risk him getting pissy just like the last person she split rent with.

That was worthy of allegiance in Dean’s book. It was official: The next person who lifted a finger against her was getting an ass-whooping.

The faint pitter-patter of tiny footsteps brought Dean’s attention back to the present, where a fat raccoon ambled into their line of vision and sniffed at the open closet curiously. 

Dean cocked his head to the side again. “You want the rest of my Mellow Mushroom pizza?”

Bee peered at him. “That’s yours. No eating each other’s food, remember? That’s one of the rules.”

Dean took another look at the dozens of plants surrounding him. “So was ‘don’t look through my stuff’ but clearly that ship has sailed.” It was kind of a lame olive branch, but if it gave her peace of mind, it was worth it.

She nodded in understanding. “Mr. ‘Dubs, you don’t suck.”

_ Don’t say it. Don’t say it. Don’t say it. _

“I swallow!” he bellowed, scaring away the raccoon.

Bee rubbed the bridge of her nose with her thumb and index finger and let out a long sigh in resignation. “Keepin’ it classy as always.”


	15. The One Where Dean Decides Where to Take Cas On Their Date

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a stressful conversation with Sam about job hunting, Dean looks forward to his and Cas' first "alone" date more than ever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen to [Takin’ Care of Business](https://youtu.be/sl7x4S_fLXU)

“Any luck on the job hunt?” Sam asked over smoked salmon salad with vinaigrette.

Dean paused from chewing the bite he just took out of his cheddar bacon burger to give his brother a glare. He took his time swallowing and washing it down with a local IPA on tap. He told himself it was to find a nicer way of telling Sam to go shove a cactus up his ass, but it was mostly because he truly had no clue what to say.

“I’m working on it,” Dean said flatly while avoiding eye contact.

Sam dragged his fork across the salmon, breaking it into flakes across the bed of green. “Great. Tell me about a few jobs you’ve looked at. Anything pique your interest?”

Huffing an aggravated breath, Dean plopped his burger back onto the plate. “I don’t know, Sam. Anything particularly riveting at summer pilot school?”

“Sure,” Sam went along, “there’s theory, all the intricacies of flight trajectory, cockpit simulation, and my personal favorite: stop changing the subject.”

Dean gave a juvenile chuckle. “You said cock.”

Sam shook his head, eyes rolling back. “You can say ‘I haven’t even Googled ‘jobs near me’ yet,’ you know.”

“It’s not like that,” Dean mumbled in the middle of another bite. He finished chewing before continuing, irked that his brother knew just what to say to get him to talk, but partly glad he had a starting point now. “I just feel like I’d have to start at the bottom of whatever new career I find.”

Sam’s brows creased. “Well, that’s… that’s kind of how new careers work.”

“Wanna become a loan officer? You gotta start out doing teller work,” Dean expounded with a wave of his free hand. “Got your eye on movie production? You’ll most likely spend some time as a production assistant before moving up. I just wish I were already good at something so I don’t have to start all over again.”

“You’re good at a lot of things, Dean.”

At this point, the disbelief was mounting. “Yeah, well,” Dean began, but the rest of the sentence never materialized. Good at what, exactly? Nothing that paid the bills. Unless he could find a way to make money lying on his bed, eating a dozen hot Krispy Kreme donuts while scrolling social media.

“What about the library? It takes an associate’s degree to become a library tech,” Sam suggested eagerly. “That’s just two years of school. And all that volunteer work under your belt won’t hurt.”

Dean gave Sam a look like he was trying to figure out whether Sam was trying to bring up Cas  _ without bringing up Cas.  _ The suggestion came out abruptly, as if he had just thought of it, so Dean decided Sam was speaking solely of career choices and not dating ones.

“I enjoy volunteering and all,” Dean acknowledged. “Library work is actually really interesting. I just don’t know if it’s ‘me’.”

Sam shrugged. “You’ll find something. I did, and that was after a degree in chemical engineering. A few years in I just realized I hated it.”

“You had a quarter-life crisis.”

“Okay,” Sam conceded. “What’s your excuse?”

Dean’s eyes darted around the room, then back at his burger. “My life is an on-going crisis.”

“That’s not a thing.”

With a sigh, Dean took another bite out of his burger. Sure, he moved all the way to St. Augustine to be near Sam, Cas had flipped Dean’s life upside down from the moment he laid eyes on him, and he hated plumbing a little more every day, but his life wasn’t an on-going crisis?

“Oh, it totally is,” he retorted.

* * *

Saturday was typically a day for as much socialization as possible, but not this one. Typically, Dean would paint the town red with his brother or try to get into the pants of whoever he was dating. But Sam was being pretty cryptic about his and Eileen’s night and Charlie was supposed to pick up Bee any minute.

And it wasn’t like he didn’t want to get into Castiel’s pants. He wanted that very much. But Cas had already agreed to a Sunday date and Dean didn’t want to seem impatient. Besides, fishing would calm his nerves. Might as well prelude the nerve-wracking First Date Alone with an activity he already  _ knew  _ he was good at.

“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” he warned in feigned sternness to Bee, who was hopping around in the living room on one foot getting her shoes on.

“That doesn’t rule out much, Mr. ‘Dubs,” she reminded him. He shrugged and continued as he was, gathering fishing gear for his short walk to the lake.

She looked similar to how she did every other day, he supposed. It wasn’t every day she got whisked off by someone in a car instead of speeding off on that wall-deprived death trap, so he half expected a daintier outfit than the wind-resistant, no-nonsense aesthetic she usually presented. But maybe she wasn’t dainty on any day. Maybe that was just Bee.

She looked the same — except for one thing. “New shirt?” he asked. It looked like it belonged on her so well he almost missed it. It was a gray plaid button-down shirt over a Janis Joplin t-shirt Bee already owned.

“It’s Charlie’s,” she replied.

Dean smirked. Sharing clothes already. It was almost too much for the relationship cheerleader deep inside his soul. “Oh my God, that’s so gay.”

He didn’t wait for a response, hoping for a dramatic exit as he swung the door open, only to face a startled Charlie, whose fist was poised for knocking. Her face brightened when she saw Bee.

“Second date, here we come,” Bee announced, stepping through the door.

“Second?” Charlie said, head cocking in perplexment and hand finally falling to her side. “It’s our fourth date, silly goose.” When Bee looked down and silently counted on her fingers, Charlie clarified. “Comic con, TV night at your place, the lighthouse, and now this!”

“Oh,” Bee dragged out. “The first two counted? You weren’t just flirting, complimenting me, and snuggling as a friend?”

Charlie let out a sharp exhale and turned to Dean. “Women dating women is a strange, confusing, wonderful venture.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” he accepted, stepping out with a fishing pole and tackle box and closing the door behind him. “You kids have fun.”

They parted ways at the bottom of the stairs. Dean walked the trail by the lake’s edge until he reached the dock. He had seen it from the apartment and always wanted to try casting from there. He figured refraining from bringing a fold-up chair would motivate him to walk the extra distance.

It was times like these Dean could think, and today he had plenty to think about. He still hadn’t figured out where he was taking Cas tomorrow. There was also the subject of job hunting that Sam had brought to the forefront of his mind. It was all too much to think about in the thick of life’s busyness, but out on a lake with nothing but the sound of the occasional jumping fish, he could mentally sort through it all.

He toyed with the cliche idea of a night on the town. Would that be Castiel’s style, though? Dean just didn’t know. There was always the beach — a perfect chance to see Cas shirtless. St. Augustine had numerous museums, and while he could see Cas getting all hot and bothered for something like that, Dean couldn’t think of anything more boring.

He could go big and take him to Universal. Dean groaned as he cast his line. Perhaps too big. What if Cas already had a season pass? Besides, if he didn’t already have one, how was Dean supposed to top Universal? Take him to Epcot for the second date?

On the much, much cheaper side of the spectrum were attractions like the zoo or aquarium. Dean hummed to himself as he lazily reeled in an empty line. He needed to come up with some ideas for his Aquarium Month display anyway. If Cas was as bookish as Dean read him, he might be into the two-in-one trip.

He tried to imagine what Cas might wear on a date. Of course, the wrapping didn’t matter to Dean; at this point, all he could think about was getting it off of him. Last time they were connected by the mouth, Cas was pinked out for Cotton Candy Day — he said so right before Dean locked them in a bathroom stall — and Dean gave exactly zero fucks. Cas looked hot no matter what. The guy could wear a burlap sack and Dean would still get a boner for him.

That brought up another thing on his list. What was  _ he  _ going to wear? Dean had a hard enough time preening himself to satisfaction the night he volunteered and subsequently got interviewed by the man himself. How was he supposed to pick out a  _ dating  _ outfit? Nope, he wasn’t at all ready to open that can of worms just yet.

Job hunting. That was only marginally less stressful to think about but he took the win. Dean put on a different lure and cast again. Sam was right, he was good at lots of things. Unfortunately, none of those things put food on the table. Even if he went back to school or took online classes, he couldn’t afford  _ not  _ to stay at his current workplace.

Ah, the endless rat race he was trapped in.

“Son of a —” The line went taut, derailing Dean’s train of thought. He reeled and pulled, gave a little slack, then reeled the rest of the way in. It was a bass, and a pretty nice sized one, too. He took a picture with it before releasing it back into the lake. Sam never did believe his  _ it-was-this-big _ stories, so he sent it via text and threw the line back in with the same bait.

Almost immediately, he got a nibble, then nothing, then a full-on tug-of-war. This one was smarter and Dean had to stay one step ahead to make sure the fish didn’t unhook itself. When it broke through the water thrashing it was obvious it was smaller than the first but much stronger. 

Dean looked over his shoulder to make sure no one was watching, then took another picture. He couldn’t help his excitement; how often could a fisherman say he got two moderately-sized bass within two minutes of each other? He sent the second picture to Cas, along with a caption directly from Napoleon Dynamite.

**To Cas:** **_I caught you a delicious bass_ **

He snorted a laugh sending it. The chances of Cas understanding that reference were very close to zero, but screw it. He was hilarious.

**From Cas:** **_My roommate has informed me that you have quoted a popular film from the early ‘00s._ **

Dean’s brow shot up. If Charlie was close by, that meant Bee was, too. He didn’t know where the girls were headed on their date, but he wasn’t expecting it to be Charlie’s apartment. Then again, hogging Dean’s couch apparently counted as a date, so what did he know.

**From Cas:** **_Charlie and Bee are assisting me in choosing an outfit for our date._ **

**To Cas:** **_Have them come over and pick out mine later_ **

He was only half kidding and figured whichever way it was taken would be up to fate. Either way, he wasn’t worrying his mind with his date outfit yet. For now, there was a whole lake of fish to be caught, gators to avoid, and job listings to search.

**From Cas:** **_I tried telling the girls that our destination is a surprise, but they insist that knowing it will make it easier for them to pick an outfit._ **

Dean smiled to himself and cast again. He could see it now: Charlie and Bee holding up shirts to an exasperated Cas, arguing back and forth about the formality of their setting. Bee might not have an over-the-top style herself, but she would probably bring a more classic style to the table, while he could imagine Charlie encouraging a less serious, whimsical approach.

He wasn’t sure which one of the girls put Cas up to asking, but he was glad they did. It made their outing tomorrow seem even more real. Dean paused from reeling to text back.

**To Cas:** **_the aquarium_ **


	16. The One at the Aquarium

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which their date goes swimmingly and Dean's use of puns cannot be drowned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen to [Slow an’ Easy](https://youtu.be/1qqAtPV-kgs)

If one were to ask how Dean and Castiel came to a mutual agreement to go on a date — not just dating in general, but this individual one — Dean would love to embellish the tale, much like a fisherman widens his arms when describing a fish.

He’d like to say it happened on a fair June day with the lowest humidity Florida had known in a decade. They were walking hand-in-hand along a park trail, chatting about their upcoming week. All Cas had planned was work and a local band gig Charlie insisted on dragging him to.

The moment seemed right. “I’ve been to a restaurant in town decked out in tropical plants and rambling ivy,” a suave Dean would have liked to say. “It’d look a lot more gorgeous with you there. How’s this weekend sound?”

Or maybe he’d like to say it happened under a moonlit sky, mere seconds before going separate ways for the night. Each twinkling star cheering him on, he gazed upon the man his body and soul desperately wanted. With one last bout of passion, they pressed their lips together, wishing in vain that they could stay like this for just a little while longer.

“Your eyes shine in the starlight,” Dean would love to brag about saying. “I’ll think about them all night.”

“What about sleep?” Castiel would’ve inevitably asked.

Dean would have shaken his head. “Nah. Not when I could be thinking about you.” His eyes flitted to the night sky above. “We could lay out under the stars. For just an hour or two.” He looked back down to see Cas smile in approval.

But no, that’s not how Dean asked him out. Not even close.

It happened that night in the library bathroom, with Castiel’s blazer draped over the stall door and their clothes becoming more and more of a nuisance. It was past nine o’clock and they both knew it; it heightened the tension even more. They were running out of time to be tangled around each other. The blood beating through their veins and oxytocin flooding their heads demanded  _ more, more,  _ but they  _ couldn’t,  _ and it was infuriating and intoxicating.

Dean slipped an experimental hand down to Castiel’s ass, ready for whatever the reaction may be. He had seen all kinds. Some people really liked it, some really hated it, and whatever the reaction was, the receiver would always let him know. Cas had already reacted positively to hands all over his neck, chest, arms, waist, and even the small of his back. Moving them to his ass seemed like the natural progression. So whatever his reaction was, Dean would take it and roll with it.

Cas gave a barely audible gasp, his body reacting with a slight squirm before moving one leg around Dean’s thigh, pressing their groins closer. Dean groaned at the intense warmth they created. Their lips reconnected amid tiny sounds of desire and frustration as they grinded against each other, both rock hard in their pants.

Dean paused from all the pushing and pulling to take Cas’ chin in his hand and move his thumb across Cas’ bottom lip. Cas’ short, shallow breaths puffed against Dean’s thumb and did absolutely nothing to calm the lust building between them. He looked directly into those enchanting blue eyes, not anticipating how fast he got lost in them, despite how many times he had before.

  
“I wanna date you so hard,” Dean said quietly.

Cas’ eyelashes flitted over those tiny blue oceans, drawing Dean in for one more kiss. “I’m available on Sunday,” Cas said afterward, breathlessly.

For a few seconds, Dean just stood there, practically crushing Castiel against a bathroom stall with their faces an inch away. Castiel’s hands draped over Dean’s shoulders, unwilling for him to move away — not yet, when the library staff was closing the place down and time was of the essence more than ever. 

“Okay,” Dean said with a smile crawling across his face.

So that was that.

Faster than either could react came the sound of a door swinging open, then the click of the light switch. The two of them tensed up, clutching to each other as the door swung back shut and left them in utter darkness. Dean cleared his throat to cut through the silence brought on by a staff member innocently doing closing procedures.

“Shame,” he spoke up. “That ass looks great in pink and I was looking forward to checking it out again.”

“Cotton candy day only happens once a year,” Castiel replied, either missing  _ or ignoring _ the library joke. “But if they are what prompted you to grab my ass, I will consider wearing them again in the near future.”

It was pointless to smile in the dark, but Dean couldn’t help it. “Guess you could say I’m getting those pants renewed.”

* * *

God, he really needed to find a better way to flirt. Somehow Castiel made Dean want to take his pants off for terms like  _ boolean operators _ and  _ truncation.  _ Yet when Dean gave a stab at library puns, he could feel his own dick shrivel up in disinterest. If that was how he reacted, he didn’t want to imagine how turned-off he made Cas.

He didn’t want to, but he couldn’t help it. Dean thought about it lying awake in his bed that night. After an hour of tossing and turning, he turned on his phone’s flashlight and finished the last fifty pages of the gay romance novel Cas had talked him into borrowing. Every time one of the main characters said something swoon-worthy he’d grumble; why couldn’t his brain work like that?

Nope, with him it was all “that’s what she said” jokes and  _ this-pun-is-so-bad-you-might-actually-puke. _

How the hell was Cas even agreeing to this date?

The next thing he knew it was morning and to his horror, he had forgotten to set an alarm. “Dammit,” he breathed as he checked the time. His phone flashlight was still on, battery almost completely drained. Throwing his covers to the side, he clambered out of bed and threw mismatched work clothes on before scrambling around in the kitchen for something to eat.

“What are you still doing here?” Bee asked from the couch with a mouthful of cereal.

“Woke up late, gotta go,” Dean blurted in short segments. He grabbed a spoon and a jar of peanut butter. Whatever. It was good enough.

“I can run you up there,” she offered.

He stubbornly shook his head. “I’m not riding on that thing.”

“You’re going to be late.”

Dean glanced at his phone. 2% battery. “I’ll get an Uber.”

Bee exhaled sharply. He wasn’t looking, but he was certain she was rolling her eyes. Maybe she said something in reply, maybe she didn’t; he was already down the hall with a spoonful of peanut butter in his mouth to throw his phone on the charger for the forty seconds it would take to call for a ride.

A ride with a car. With walls. And a windshield.

* * *

That was Friday. Yes, he was late for work. Yes, he got chewed out for it. But it was his first offense, so he didn’t worry about it too much.

Fishing day was Saturday. It was a much better day. Charlie and Bee came over that evening to help him pick out an outfit. They kept whispering to each other about how  _ this  _ on Dean would complement  _ that  _ on Cas. It was cute, he’d give them that. They only caught him snickering at them once.

Today was Sunday. 

He hadn’t seen either of the girls since last night, but he did hear a suspiciously familiar masculine chuckle come from across the hall. Dean had just gotten Saturday’s mail and climbed the stairs — he still didn’t trust that shady-ass elevator — and was about to turn his doorknob when he heard it.

He turned 180 degrees to face Eileen’s closed apartment door. Was that… Sam’s chuckle?

“Nope,” he said, slipping into his own abode before any other sounds crossed his eardrums. “It’s none of my business.” Besides, he could always interrogate his brother later. For now, there was an outfit hanging in his closet and a hot date picking him up in under an hour.

Dean put it all on and began the grueling process of getting his hair just right. He wore off-white chinos with teeny tiny navy anchors printed all over, and a tucked-in chambray shirt with sleeves rolled up. After he was satisfied with his hair he slipped on his gray boat shoes and gave himself a light squirt of cologne.

If he couldn’t make up for his bad puns with his looks, maybe pheromones would do the trick.

He sucked in a nervous stream of air when Cas knocked on the door. “Oh God,” Dean whispered as a cold sweat spread over him. No, he couldn’t freak out now. Not with his hair painstakingly put into place. 

This might have been worse than the night he offered to volunteer at the library. At least back then the interview was for something that ended with his clothes still on. Dating was like tryouts — the final test to differentiate between those who found him genuinely interesting and those who simply wanted to bump uglies.

From all the hints Cas had dropped, it was pretty obvious he wanted to do the latter. But what if Cas thought Dean was boring as hell after Date Alone #1?

Dean swung the door open, like ripping off the band-aid. All speech left him as his eyes fell on the wonder before him that was Castiel. His hair looked a little different this time — styled looser at the top, instead of forced down flat — and his eyes were such a sight, Dean never wanted to look away or blink.

Cas’ shirt was a casual button-down with wide blue checks and tiny slivers of white. It made his eyes look even bluer, if possible. He wore it untucked, with just enough chest showing to make Dean’s brain short-circuit. Dean’s eyes wandered down, both wanting to take it all in and trying to cover for looking too long at the tiny bit of skin previously unseen. Although Cas’ casual brown shoes certainly tied everything together, it was the pants that made Dean erupt into a smile.

Cas had actually done it. He wore pink denim again.

“I will have you know,” Cas said, “I am committing an unforgivable fashion faux pas for you.”

Dean tried really hard to quit smiling. It wasn’t working. In fact, it was getting worse. “I appreciate your sacrifice.”

“You said you wanted them renewed.”

“So I did.” Relief washed over him. Maybe his puns weren’t as off-putting as he thought. “Everyone renews their favorites.”

The corner of Cas’ lip turned up. “Sometimes I can tell a favorite from the very first page. Hopefully, there won’t be a hold on this one.”

Dean swallowed.  _ Fuck, he’s doing that thing again where everything he says sounds like porn.  _ “At this point, I’m just glad you haven’t decided I need to be weeded,” he said, stepping out to slip an arm around Castiel.

“I confess, I do have somewhat strict criteria.” Cas spoke softer now that Dean was just a few inches away, but no less purposive. “The resource content could be outdated or obsolete, bigoted, or,” he glanced down Dean’s body, “irrelevant to patron needs.”

Dean felt instantly warm, partly from the way Cas just looked at him, but mostly because of what his words were doing to him, and their date hadn’t even started yet.

“The resource could lack visual appeal, or be in poor condition — irreparably damaged, dirty or smelly, or unable to survive further circulation,” Cas went on, voice dropping to a low grumble. Dean pressed closer instinctively. He could hear Cas better, and the vibrations rumbled pleasingly through his body. “None of which are true for the resource in question.”

Dean sucked in a quivering breath.

“Now then,” Cas switched gears with a relaxed lilt in his voice that definitely wasn’t there before. “Are we ready for our aquarium outing?”

It was all Dean could do to hold back the helpless squeak in his throat. Every nerve in his body was on edge — exactly the way Cas intended — and now Dean was supposed to look at fish all afternoon? God help him, all he wanted was to invite Cas inside, and he had reason to believe Cas would accept the invitation.

But no. Two could play at this game.

“Ready,” he affirmed brightly, brows bobbing up briefly. He expected Cas to start moving toward the stairs, but he didn’t, instead raising an eyebrow and glancing down at Dean’s mouth. Dean peered at him, understanding the unspoken request but not budging.

“Are you going to kiss me?” Cas finally gave in.

Dean looked directly behind Cas at Eileen’s apartment, which had grown suspiciously quiet. He could almost feel hers and Sam’s stare on them through the peephole. He gave a smug grin and gave Cas’ waist a squeeze, leaning in to whisper against his ear.

“Not here.”

* * *

They made it in time for the last shark feeding. Front display inspiration abounded, making it hard for Dean to settle on just one idea. So far he wanted to create a giant cardboard shark mouth around the door  _ and  _ hang a pool noodle squid from the ceiling  _ and  _ make a photo op submarine that kids could stick their heads through.

“Submarines don’t belong in aquariums,” Cas reminded him as they sat in front of a glass enclosure with a mermaid swimming among the fishes. “I like the squid idea. The shark would certainly add visual interest, but completing both things in that amount of time might not be realistic.”

Dean slowly turned to face Cas. “That sounded a lot like ‘I don’t think you can do it.’ Now I gotta do ‘em both. Just to prove I can.”

Cas gave a closed-mouthed half-smile, laughing a small gust of air from his nose. “Most of the appeal should come from the books themselves. Props should be used sparingly, to draw them in and nothing more.”

“That sounded an awful lot like ‘I prefer boring front displays.’”

The corner of Cas’ eye twitched, like he was close to letting his face tell-all, but reigned it into its usual neutrality. “You think my displays are boring?”

“Hey, that’s not,” Dean stammered. “That — that’s not what I meant.”

“Mm hmm,” Cas hummed as one brow rose.

Dean cleared his throat and looked at his shoes, then at the mermaid, and back at Cas. “Submarines could fit in really big aquariums, y’know.”

Cas rolled his eyes. “It’s your display, Dean. Don’t let my informed opinion built on decades of librarian experience stand in your way.”

Dean choked on a laugh. One or two people sitting nearby looked at him, less concerned for his health and more upset at his loud interruption of the serene ambiance. He got it under control and tilted his head towards Cas so he could talk quietly. “Are you underestimating me?”

“No,” Cas said without missing a beat. “I’m using learned approximations of how long each of these display items will take to create from scratch, adding it to the amount of time it will take to trace, collect, and arrange the appropriate books, and using the sum to conclude that you are underestimating how time-consuming this is going to be.”

He was hot when he talked like that. “I guess we’ll see,” Dean concluded with a shrug and a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. He didn’t want to get his hopes up for what Cas was like in bed, but if it was anything like the stern, bookish overtones Dean was picking up on now, it sounded like fun.

A few minutes later they made their way to another tank. Parrotfish swarmed by, nibbling on coral and staring skeptically at their visitors. Dean read the info card by the tank and chuckled. Cas turned to him inquisitively.

“Parrotfish poop out sand,” Dean said in amusement. “They eat coral and ‘excrete up to one cubic ton of sand per year.’ Huh, and to think I’ve been getting parrotfish crap stuck in my swim trunks all this time.” His eyes lit up. “My display…!”

“No,” Cas cut him off.

“Aw, come on, Cas. It can be a paper parrotfish taped to an hourglass. Turn it upside down and sand falls out of its ass!”

Castiel simply shook his head, saying nothing and staring intently at the tank. Dean was joking — sort of — but it was still entertaining to see Cas resign to the shenanigans Dean could pull out of thin air. He also looked gorgeous with the water’s wavy reflection dancing across his face. 

Cas looked gorgeous all the time, but there was something both powerful and peaceful about the ocean and all that dwelled within. Combining it with the way Cas always seemed so in control, he looked like a rock standing there, where neither wind nor wave could sway him. After a moment Cas seemed to sense Dean staring at him and turned to face him.

“We’ve seen just about everything,” Dean noted. He glanced at his phone for the time. It was much later than he expected. “They’ll be kicking us out soon, anyway. Where do you want to go after this?”

“Home,” Cas said bluntly.

Maybe that one word shouldn’t have hit Dean as it did, but he couldn’t help but take it the same way a lot of first dates usually meant. “Oh,” he replied, glancing down. “Guess you could drop me off at home, then —”

“Why would I do that?” 

Dean looked back up to see Cas with an utterly perplexed expression. It took Dean a good three seconds to finally get it, but when he got it, he  _ got it.  _ “Oh,” he replied, tone completely different this time.  _ Oh.  _ Cas wanted them  _ both  _ to go to his home.

“We would both be going, of course,” Cas clarified. “Why would we spend the remainder of our date separated?”

Dean sputtered a few sounds that failed to form words, then just shrugged his lips.  _ Why, indeed?  _ “I mean… we wouldn’t… duh…” He huffed a laugh and stuffed his hands in his pockets. “I just didn’t want to assume that’s what you meant.”

Cas hummed thoughtfully as they headed towards the exit. “Perhaps my wording was ambiguous. Let me rephrase.” Someone announced closing time over the intercom. “I want to take you home with me.”

Try as he might, Dean couldn’t help the internal screaming that drowned out any logical thoughts happening in his brain. He told himself not to read into it. Whatever happened next was a-okay with him because no matter what it was, it was with Cas. He was deeply aware of all these things. But they weren’t going to stop the butterflies in his stomach and warmth spreading over his skin.

He had so many em _ oceans  _ about it.

Dean chuckled to himself as he sat in the passenger seat of Cas’ Pontiac Sunfire. It was objectively a neat car, but it was definitely making some weird noises Bee would know how to fix. He glanced over to Cas, who was making that face when he was trying to figure out what Dean was thinking.

“Nothing,” he supplied to the wordless question. After Cas rolled out of the parking lot, Dean’s nervous energy started conjuring more ocean-esque puns. “Hey, Cas.”

“Yes, Dean.”

“It’s the perfect night to Netflix and Krill.” Out of the corner of his eye, Dean caught Cas shaking his head while keeping his lips together in an effort to suppress a smile. “Pretty obvious joke, but I  _ beach  _ you to it.”

The jokes kept coming, all the way up until Cas parked in front of his apartment. Dean stammered through “I bet you’re sick and  _ tide  _ of these puns” as he closed the car door and glanced up at the building he would soon enter. Right before unlocking the breezeway door, Cas gave him a look, which Dean feared would be disgust, but it wasn’t.

It was an  _ I’m-undressing-you-with-my-eyes _ look.

“Cas?”

The man calmly flipping through his keys found the one he was looking for just as they approached his apartment door. It was on the ground level and had a mat with the words “Move Along” in Star Wars font — undoubtedly one of Charlie’s touches. 

“Yes, Dean,” Cas answered smoothly, even as Dean’s heart rate rose by the second.

“H-how do you ask what a tank of water is doing?”

Cas unlocked the door and gave it a light push. It opened with a slight creak.  _ Oh fuck oh shit oh God,  _ Dean’s brain rattled.  _ We’re here, he’s here, I’m here, oh damn, oh Lord… _

“A glass of water is an inanimate object,” Cas stated with total neutrality as he pulled Dean inside, “and is incapable of having a thought process or understanding English.”

“Water you doing,” Dean completed the punchline a fraction of a second before Cas smashed their lips together and slammed the door behind them.


	17. This is a private moment what are you doing they are LITERALLY HAVING SEX go away pervert (cough cough *bottom Dean*)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yeah, in case the chapter title didn't give it away, this is a smut chapter. There is no plot to be seen here. Those of you who read my works regularly know I go all-out in steamy scenes, so trust me when I say the smut in this story lends itself to bookish themes. Winky winky.
> 
> Here is this chapter's song choice, and of course it had to be Zeppelin, because we love spoiling Dean when he bottoms: [Since I’ve Been Loving You](https://youtu.be/N_lSJ-0Gl7Q)

Their lips pressed together with all the fervency of a whole day’s worth of sexual frustration. It began the moment they laid eyes on each other at Dean’s doorstep. How he would have loved to invite Castiel inside and fulfilled their desires right then and there. The long hours in public had multiplied their longing and it was all culminating two feet inside Castiel’s apartment.

Dean hummed blissfully at the tongue gliding past his lips. The way Cas kissed him was the best feeling in the world, so focused and driven. They were the kisses of a man who knew exactly what he wanted, and they melted Dean into an enthusiastic mess who was very much inclined to give it to him. As if he needed any more help in that department.

He could feel Cas’ hands everywhere on him, sliding down his back, pulling him closer, holding the back of his neck, and Dean just closed his eyes and let himself feel every bit of it. He clenched onto fistfuls of Cas’ shirt, the firm chest underneath anchoring him while teasing what was to come.

Cas moved his hips against Dean’s, grinding their erections together and earning gasps of pleasure. Dean opened his eyes to see Cas looking up at him with those alluring eyes, dark with desire and crystal clear with intent.

“Let’s go to my room,” Cas rumbled lowly.

“Y-yes let’s - let’s do that,” Dean replied wholeheartedly. It didn’t even need to be a question. Not  _ Would you like to?  _ Not  _ Did you want to?  _ Because Dean had been ready. The final say lied with Cas and he just gave the signal.

Dean didn’t get much of a look at the place on the way to the bedroom, but it was pretty typical of an apartment layout. Living area with bookshelves, kitchen, eating nook, all in an open floor plan that made it seem bigger than it was. Cas led them down the hall and through one of two doors across from each other.

He locked the door behind them and they were back on each other in a heartbeat. Dean’s nerves were shot from the ride there, plus every touch they shared sent a fresh bolt of hunger straight into his groin. His dick was laser-focused on the task ahead. All the excitement leading up to this had his head swimming in the good hormones and all he could do was hum in approval every time Cas touched him in a particularly enjoyable way.

Dean felt himself taking steps backwards, prompted by the firm pressure of Cas’ chest against him with each stride. The pulls they made against each other’s clothes had already surpassed the superficial nature of the same motions made in the library bathroom. Cas had untucked his shirt on the way to the bed, and Dean held his breath waiting for the moment his thick, nimble fingers grazed across his skin.

He struggled to concentrate on picking Cas’ buttons apart. Cas’ hands were under his shirt now, touching his stomach and back before squeezing his side to keep him close. Meanwhile, the sounds Dean made were barely recognizable as human, so needy and anguished, like a rubber band pulled suspensefully tight and ready to snap.

“Shh,” Cas shushed him after Dean made a particularly loud noise. 

“Oh,” Dean said apologetically. “That’s right. Neighbors. Gotta love apartment life.”

Cas looked at him through darkened eyes and jet black lashes and smirked before giving a gentle press against Dean’s chest. “If you must raise your voice,” he directed as Dean collapsed onto the bed with an  _ oomph,  _ “you can recite every title that has distracted you from completing your assigned volunteer work.”

The embarrassingly long list of books flashed across Dean’s mind as he settled back onto his elbows for support. He was halfway through recounting them all in vivid detail — plot, favorite characters, even the cover art — when he shook himself back to the present to find Cas tugging at one of his shoes.

“Take your clothes off,” Cas ordered in an understated growl.

Dean jumped into action, sitting up to pull his whole shirt off without bothering with buttons. He kicked off shoes and peeled off socks unceremoniously while catching glimpses of Cas doing the same. He paused mid-removal of his shorts to see Cas turn around to toss his clothes into the hamper, not just because of his muscular back — although the thought of clawing at it while getting fucked made his dick swell even more — but because of the _ massive badass tattoo _ he had been hiding there.

“Holy shit,” Dean hissed under his breath as his stomach did a backflip. Stuffy librarian Castiel with the tweed vest and affinity for odd holidays had a  _ full-back tattoo?  _ He could practically hear his ass singing like a choir of angels, praising him for his choice of top.

_ Sweet Jesus, yes,  _ he thought.  _ Cas is inked, holy shit. Cas is friggin’ inked. What is it? Is that a…? No way. Is that a friggin — _

“Hey,” he whined as Cas turned back around with only boxers on. “Can — can I see it?”

The corner of Cas’ lip quirked up as he crawled onto the bed and faced away from Dean. He tugged Dean’s shorts the rest of the way off as Dean found himself fully absorbed in the beautiful art before him. He ran his fingers down Cas’ back with a barely audible gasp.

In the dead center laid a hoard of books, stacked with care higher than any human could feasibly reach. There were hundreds, maybe thousands of them, the pile as wide as it was tall. Around it, as its faithful guardian, laid an enormous dragon. Its long body twisted around the hoard, assuming a defensive stance and curling his tail protectively around the books exposed up front. His wings furled over them, offering shelter from above, and his claws extended threateningly to anyone meaning harm.

The sight quite literally took Dean’s breath away.

“Have you concluded your inspection?” Cas asked, a hint of snark in his voice. “I would like to finish unclothing you and myself.”

“God, Cas,” Dean said in awe. “This is badass as hell.”

“Thank y-”

“And hot.”

“I’m pleased that someone else can appreciate —”

“And kinda nerdy,” Dean said with a humored exhale. How did Cas manage to accomplish all three at the same time? Not only in a tatt, but every aspect? Dean was confounded yet turned on by it. “Sorry for the brief intermission. I’m ready now.”

“It is forgiven,” Cas replied as he climbed over Dean. “I tend to forget it’s there until I’m at the beach or somewhere else shirts are socially optional.”

“C’mere,” Dean requested, as it had been way too long since they had been connected at the lips. As they kissed their hands wandered, finding places that made them moan in each other’s mouths and kindled the heat between them.

At last they knew the intimacy of skin on skin. Touch alone would have been enough, but Dean was so glad Cas left the light on, because combined with the sight of him, it was everything Dean had been yearning after for months. He couldn’t get enough. 

He ran his hands over Cas’ chest and found it just as strong as he had imagined. Cas’ well-built arms caged him in and were perfect for holding onto. Dean’s suspicions about his body were correct — Cas was solid, while not excessively buff — but the reality was still far better than he had imagined.

And while Dean wasn’t scrawny by any means, he was still leaner than Cas. But what he lacked in muscle, he made up for in dick size. It was the only part of him left unexposed up to this point, and the part he found himself grinding shamelessly against Cas.

“You got something in there for me, Cas?” Dean asked breathlessly.

Cas crooked a finger into Dean’s waistband. “Enough distance between us,” he said decidedly as he began to pull downward. “We weren’t made for white space to separate, no, no… It’s still too much. Too much kerning.”

Dean’s eyebrows furrowed, although the metaphor made him no less aroused. “Too much  _ kerning?  _ Like, the spacing between letters?” The thought of zero  _ kerning  _ between them somehow managed to make his dick throb even more. “Oh my God, Cas. How did you manage to make that sexy?”

Cas didn’t reply, instead giving light sucks and licks to Dean’s pulse point on his neck. Panting heavily, Dean grabbed Cas’ hair and held him there, currents of raw want surging through him with every nip under his jawline. The fabric separating them became absolutely unbearable. He  _ needed  _ to feel all of Cas, and he needed it  _ now. _

“Please,” Dean gritted, one hand sliding between them to cup around Cas’ erection. “C’mon, Cas. You’re killin’ me here.” Cas dismounted to remove Dean’s boxers the rest of the way, an intrigued brow arching upwards as he paused to take in the sight of Dean’s entire exposed body. He removed his own underwear before commenting. 

“As far as size is concerned,” Cas began, his own impressive dick bobbing against his lower stomach as he settled back over Dean, “it appears I have underestimated you.”

Dean cocked his head smugly.

“It appears you are a folio and I am but a quarto.”

“I have no idea what that means, but please get back on me,” Dean requested, already missing Cas’ soft but firm lips and the heat of his skin.

“The largest book on record is _ Bhutan: A Visual Odyssey Across the Last  _ —”

Dean twisted one of his legs around Cas’ ankle and pulled at his arm, flipping them around and landing him on top. “So you’re saying I’m the biggest you’ve seen?”

“Yes,” Cas stated, not a bit out of sorts from the sudden change in position.

Seeing Cas totally unbothered by the sudden movement really shouldn’t have been that hot, but then again, hardly anything Cas did had any business making Dean as sexually frustrated as he was. He took advantage of the new position and took his turn kissing down Cas’ neck and collarbone. Although his dick ached for touch, Dean knelt high enough above him to keep a distance. Too much this early on would send him past the point of no return.

Cas moaned and carded his fingers through Dean’s hair before turning the tables. “Enough,” he growled in Dean’s ear as he shimmied downwards. Dean grinned with delight as he assumed Cas was crawling out from under him to fetch something wet and slick from the nightstand. This was  _ exactly  _ what he wanted: to see Cas give into the desires Dean had been seeing in his eyes since his early days volunteering at the library.

But instead of reaching for lube, Cas crawled down and licked under the head of Dean’s dick. “Wh-what? That’s —” The surprised shout dangerously close to breaching the surface paused in Dean’s throat.

_ The titles.  _ Cas wanted him to recite the titles.

“The Picture of Dorian Gray!” he blurted, using the same volume as the vulgar exclamation would have.

Cas wrapped his lips around the head of Dean’s shaft and made the most delicious sucking noises. He stroked the base with one hand and released him from his mouth. “Ah, the homoerotic subtext from the brilliant mind of Oscar Wilde.”

“Subtext, my ass,” Dean grumbled. “Basil’s in love with him. Bite me.”

Cas grazed his teeth across Dean’s inner thigh, a benign but literal reply to Dean’s request. Dean sucked in a stream of air at the sensation as his thigh muscles tensed up. He grabbed fistfuls of the sheets as Cas took him in his mouth again, swirling his tongue around him and gradually taking him in deeper.

“City of Night,” he gushed when Cas gave his balls a light squeeze that had his vision temporarily go white. He struggled to steady himself on his arms, so as not to belly-flop onto the bed and subsequently plunge his dick into Cas’ throat. The man sucking him off was not making the job easy.

Cas made a rumbling sound in his throat at the mention of the book title, which vibrated against Dean’s dick and made him instantly weak in the knees. Repositioning his faltering legs, Dean buried his face in the covers and swore under his breath. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could hold off, but this wasn’t the way he had pictured coming.

“Ah, fuck me,” he said, and although the sheets muffled him, it was an easy enough request to decipher.

Cas slid his tight mouth off of him. “I don’t recall any books by that title. Would you like me to put a trace on it?” 

“Smartass,” Dean griped. “I want your dick in my butthole. Put a trace on that, Giles.”

“I thought you’d never ask.” Cas’ voice dripped with maddening pleasantness — a stark contrast to the way Dean’s vibrated with carnal hunger. He scooted out from under Dean but indicated for him to stay still with a gentle hand on his back, then moved away to dig through his nightstand.

The sound of a lube bottle opening had Dean grinning with excitement. He gripped the sheets and arched his back in an anticipatory stance as Cas lubed himself and Dean’s rim. His dick hung right above the mattress, still slick with spit but mourning the loss of contact. At the first press of Cas’ blunt head to his hole, Dean closed his eyes and hummed into the sheets.

Behind him, Cas let out a slow, breathy groan as he sank deeper. Dean had never heard Cas make a sound like that and it made his toes curl. He wished he could see Cas right now — the look on his face as he entered him, devoid of the neutral composure he put up as a front. Dean raised his head, about to make a comment on it, but swallowed it down when he saw his own reflection looking right back at him.

The full-length mirror directly across from the bed was inconspicuous enough in most situations. It was beside the closet, where one would logically put a mirror after choosing an outfit. Perhaps Cas hadn’t even given thought to the convenience of its placement for a less chaste setting, but Dean was glad it was there, because Lord have mercy,  _ Castiel’s face. _

His eyes were closed and lips slightly parted as he fully took in the feeling of Dean’s ass squeezing around his length. His brows creased in abandon and his strong arms flexed as he gripped onto Dean’s thighs as he pushed in further. Dean stared at the sight without as much as a blink, drinking in the beauty of Cas with no inhibitions or that stoic facade.

There was only one thing that could make this better. One thing Dean really,  _ really  _ wanted to see while Cas fucked him.

“I wanna see your tattoo,” he entreated.

Cas’ eyes blinked open, mouth still agape, before raising to meet Dean’s in the mirror. Looking at each other like this, with Cas balls deep and Dean on his hands and knees, was incredibly intimate. It made Dean’s stomach knot with something he wasn’t quite ready to face. His mouth went dry as he lowered his eyes, unsure of what he had just felt at that moment but knowing it wasn’t anything his other bedmates had ever made him feel.

Dean let out a tiny whimper when Cas pulled out. At first it was just his ass reacting to sudden emptiness, but then the thought occurred to him: What if the shared look in the mirror was too much? What if Cas wanted to stop? Should they have flicked the light off? Dean’s face hit the covers, lamentation brewing in his gut and unable to erase  _ the way Cas looked at him in the mirror _ from the forefront of his mind.

Cas had looked at him the way Dean looked at pie. It was longing and need, a far-off wish that, when they looked at each other just then, suddenly seemed much closer. Cas looked at him like he had been searching for him  _ and found him _ and was just now realizing it. Dean wasn’t sure what that was, but it scared him, and he wasn’t sure if Cas sensed it too or if he was just being a dramatic bitch.

Before Dean could form another thought about it, he felt his legs being dragged around towards the side of the bed facing the mirror. It forced him into an upright position, and he humphed out an  _ oomph  _ as Cas pulled Dean’s legs over the side of the bed so that he was seated on the edge. He held Cas’ shoulders for purchase as he bent down to fill Dean up again, and sure enough, Cas’ back was in perfect view.

Dean saw himself, one leg hooked around Cas, and dug his fingers into his back as Cas began fucking him. Dean saw his own blissed out face as he lost himself to the pleasure from being repeatedly filled and his own pulsing length caught between them. Best of all, he saw the muscles on Cas’ back tighten with every thrust, his massive tattoo rippling with each movement and bringing the ink to life.

“Fuck,” Dean huffed quietly against Cas’ hot neck. “This is amazing, Cas.”

Cas gave a guttural hum in reply. The sound was so damn primal, Dean nearly came right then and there. Reaching around far enough to trace the very top of the dragon’s head, Dean concentrated on holding his load. He shuddered at the way Cas fucked him, right on the edge of the bed, his intensity increasing with every thrust.

He was going faster, and Dean smiled suspecting he was getting closer to the finish line. Being held close, fucked senseless, all with the best seat in the house, had him keening in ecstasy. His gaze lingered on Cas’ tattoo as his own climax began to near, but he gasped in surprise when Cas took both legs in his hands and hoisted them up, plunging impossibly deeper.

“Oh sh-” Dean began to curse but snapped his mouth shut as he recalled Cas’ demand for all the book titles that had sidetracked him. “A History of Anime!”   
  


Cas blew a humored gust of air. “In all your weeks of volunteering, you’ve only been distracted by three books?”

“N-no,” Dean confessed. His eyes rolled back when Cas’ cock grazed his prostate. “The Total —  _ oh God _ — the Total Fishing Manual… Narcissus in Chains… Celebrating Odd Holidays 365 Days a Year…”

Cas hesitated for a split second before resuming. “We have a book on holidays for every day of the year?”

“You wish,” Dean said with a smirk. Cas plowed into him, harder this time, and reached between them to stroke Dean with a lube-slick hand. Dean moaned, the welcomed feeling of tightness around his own shaft sending pre-orgasm tingles into his groin.

Cas’ pace went merciless as his breathing grew erratic. “Dean,” he huffed urgently. “Dean, I’m —”

“I’m right there with ya, Cas,” Dean assured him as his climax built to a head. His dick began to pulse — he was a fraction of a second away — and instead of shouting Cas’ name or something incoherent, he exclaimed, “The entire volume 4 of Grolier’s Academic Encyclopedia!” and stiffened as he painted them both with his release.

Cas was too far gone to pause this time, but his tone was perplexed. “The letter C?”

“Cause it’s the first letter of your name,” Dean explained weakly.

“Oh my God,” Cas muttered in a gravelly tone before spilling into Dean. He went still after a couple of final thrusts, letting go of Dean’s dick to hold him close. In the wake of their orgasms they caught their breath and came back down from the high, finally peeling their bodies apart, still glistening from sweat and sticky from Dean’s cum.

After Cas brought him a hand towel from his room’s attached bathroom, Dean collapsed back onto the bed, completely blissed out, and smiled. There wasn’t a single thing that could ruin this moment for him, because what had just happened was _ fucking incredible.  _ He was here with Cas, their date had gone better than he could’ve ever imagined, and all was perfect in the world.

Sure, he might have had a scare when he and Castiel looked at each other in the mirror _ like that,  _ but that wasn’t anything, right? That was just the reflection playing tricks on them. Just the butterflies in his stomach reminding him that he was getting laid. Nothing deep or profound, right?

Just two men eye-fucking until they realize they don’t hate each other, then doing actual-fucking after they figure it out.  _ Right?  _ Dean shimmied up the bed, pulling the covers over himself as Cas turned off the lights and snuggled up close. Dean snuggled closer in return. Just two men dating and snuggling and looking at each other like they just found the answer to all the questions in the universe.  _ Right? _

Right.


	18. The One With Pie and Frozen Burritos

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After his and Castiel's date ends in the best way possible, Dean wakes up in the middle of the night for a glass of water.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen to [I Want to Know What Love Is](https://youtu.be/4jA-_g_iSY0)

Dean’s eyes fluttered open, his surroundings puzzling him for only a moment before remembering where he was. Naked but warm under a billowing comforter, he shifted onto his side to see Cas, who was still fast asleep with his chest rising with each breath and half his face hidden by a fluffy pillow. 

The last twelve hours of his life replayed in Dean’s head as he looked at the man next to him. They had just  _ done that.  _ From the knock at his apartment door until the moment he and Cas huffed their last sex-blissed sighs of satisfaction, Dean’s world had been rocked.

Cas looked so peaceful at that moment — a far cry from just a few short hours ago. In some ways, Cas In the Sheets was eerily similar to Cas In the Streets, which was both hilarious and deeply comforting to Dean. On the other hand, he was completely unprepared for the Cas that came out behind locked doors. That Cas — book dragon tattoo and all — took his breath away just as much as the stuffy librarian that ran from him the first time their eyes met between a wall of books.

A breath hitched in Dean’s throat when the reality hit him that lying awake at 3 AM to stare at the person he just slept with and think about how wonderful they are  _ wasn’t really his regular gig.  _ “Dammit,” he hissed to himself. What was happening to him?

He shuffled around the bed silently before finding his boxers between their pillows. At least, he was pretty sure they were his. All he had for light were slivers of moonlight seeping through the window blinds, but it was enough to see Cas’ gorgeous sleepy face, plus that pair of underwear and a t-shirt he threw on to sneak into the kitchen for water and maybe a snack.

Cas’ apartment was a two bed two bath with the bedrooms across from each other. Dean didn’t exactly ask for the Grand Tour upon arrival, as Cas succeeded in making the distance between point A and point B a very, very straight line, but it was a common enough layout to guess by process of elimination. Cas had his own bathroom and the other was at the end of the short hallway.

Dean closed the bedroom door as quietly as possible. He hadn’t seen or heard Charlie since he and Cas arrived, but in case she was home, he wanted his presence to go as unnoticed as possible. He let go of the doorknob, wincing as the tiniest  _ click  _ cut through the dark, then went on alert at an identical  _ click  _ on the door directly across from him.

He gasped lightly and spun around. 

Bee spun around.

Dean blinked wildly. “Bee?” he whispered, the look of perplexity paired with peering through the dark wrinkling his face into ultimate bewilderment. 

“Dean?” she asked in reply, dressed in a long nightshirt that he was ninety-nine percent sure wasn’t hers. “Fancy seein’ you here.”

“Oh my God,” Dean mumbled while heading for the kitchen. A hot flush rushed across his face as he peeked inside each cabinet until he found cups.  _ Of course,  _ he scolded himself as he remembered he hadn’t seen Bee around since she and Charlie came over to be the fashion police.  _ Of friggin’ course, they came over here, ya nincompoop. _

Setting the cup on the counter, Dean grumbled and opened the fridge to find a pitcher of water. He began pouring, then froze. How much did they hear?

_ “Shh,” Cas had shushed him after Dean made a particularly loud noise.  _

_ “Oh,” Dean said apologetically. “That’s right. Neighbors.” _

Dean flicked on the light above the eating nook and plopped down with his glass of water. Bee sat down across from him and set a flat white box between them. Nonchalant as always, she opened the lid to reveal a mostly-eaten pecan pie, then clinked two forks onto the table.

Rubbing his face, Dean grumbled through a sigh and picked up one of the forks. He took a bite. The pie was good, if not a little stale. He took another forkful and finally looked up to see Bee scrolling through something on her phone.

“Someone dropped off their pickup truck Friday morning, complaining about a weird noise,” she began. “We put it on the lift, start poking around on the underbody, and Ketch starts screaming ‘Bloody hell, how’d it get up in there?’ I start recording.” 

Bee slid her phone across the table. Dean pressed play on the video she had up and ready. Ketch, Victor, and Cole all scattered away as pieces of the car began falling to the garage floor. After a few seconds, an adolescent alligator wriggled out from underneath the truck, frightened but showing no signs of injury. It scurried away before the video stopped.

“Damn,” Dean huffed amusedly. He stared at the table blankly while she took her phone back, but he felt much more relaxed than when he first sat down. After a moment he exhaled a deep breath and ran his thumb absentmindedly across the fork handle. “You ever…? Nah, forget it.”

Bee sat quietly, neither telling him to shut up nor egging him on. Just… there, whichever way he decided.

_ Ah, what the hell.  _ “You ever meet someone and go, ‘Man, they’re worth being miserable for’? Like, if things got bad?”  _ Okay, too vague.  _ Dean rubbed a pie crumb off his face. “You ever think to yourself, ‘I could get attached to them, but they might not feel the same way, which would suck. But they’d still be worth it’?”

Bee glanced briefly towards Charlie’s room.

“I just,” he said with a pause, shrugging. “It would just really blow if me or Cas caught feelings and wound up getting hurt. I don’t wanna do that to him. I don’t have any reason to believe he wants to do it to me.” Dean exhaled sharply, a humorless laugh. “But that’s the risk of anything serious, I guess.”

“Is he worth the risk?”

Dean fidgeted with the fork as he pondered her question. For all of his flirting, dating app failures, and hitting on anyone who caught his eye, had he met anyone who was worth the pain of losing? Worthy of love and worthy of loss were two completely different things, he was beginning to realize, and it was terrifying. 

Because there was no doubt in his mind that Cas was worthy. Even if this whole thing went topside and someone broke it off, Dean would thank him for the opportunity of being with him. Even if his heart ended up broken. That wasn’t the scary part.

If he was falling in love with Cas —  _ if  _ — this was the real question: Was Dean worth it?

“Cas is worth it,” Dean replied pointedly.

His answer hung in the air for a moment, accompanied only by the dull hum of the AC and the  _ clunk  _ of the freezer ice tray flipping over before resetting. Maybe it was a talk he needed to have, even though he didn’t think he was ready at first. Maybe she knew just what she was doing by busting out the pie and funny video. 

“So,” Dean piped up again with a change of tone. “How long did it take for Cas to mention the pink pants thing?”

“We had the whole outfit laid out,” Bee said with equal parts humor and frustration. “As soon as we start to leave, he starts sneaking out the pink pants, as if we’re not gonna catch him. Man, we had to start all over.”

A deep chuckle rose in Dean’s throat.  _ Yep, that sounds like Cas. _ “After the page shelves the books he goes back and aligns them perfectly.” The memory made him smile. “You ever meet someone and think, ‘They might have some quirks, but I still want ‘em to rearrange my intestines on a regular basis’?”

“Never in my entire life,” Bee replied promptly. “But go on. Allos are fascinating.”

“I just mean,” Dean began, but paused. What  _ did  _ he mean? “Someone you didn’t expect to tick all the boxes. Someone you’d let eat your last frozen burrito. Is Charlie that person to you?” 

Bee looked up at the mention of Charlie’s name, then off to the side in thought. “I’d let her call me Baby.”

Dean’s brows rose. “Wow, that  _ is  _ serious.”

Humming in agreement, Bee closed the pie box and checked the time on her phone. Judging by how taken aback she was by the time she saw, they had been there for longer than it felt. She stood up, wincing at the pain in her back as she gathered the flat white box. Dean glanced at her unused fork.

“You didn’t have any.”

“Not hungry,” she responded as she placed the pie back in the kitchen. “Just had a feeling you needed to get something out.” She headed quietly towards Charlie’s room. “G’night, Mr. Dubs.”

Dean sat in silence for a minute or two, still twiddling the used fork between his fingers. It was too late when he realized he never actually said goodnight back, but he had gotten his fill of talking, anyways. The alternative was keeping it all in, which wouldn’t have been good either, especially after freaking out and jumping out of Castiel’s bed.

He might’ve gone full existential crisis-mode and walked home in the middle of the night. It wasn’t like he had never sneaked out of a one-night-stand’s house after getting laid. But Cas wasn’t a one-night-stand or even a casual fling. Dean didn’t freak out because Cas wasn’t more than that, he freaked out because Cas  _ was  _ and he knew it.

Cas was  _ so  _ much more.

Dean’s fork made a  _ clunk  _ as he dropped it into the sink and returned to Castiel’s room. He took a deep breath before opening the door, taking in the sight of Cas turned on his side under the covers. Dean slipped into bed, dipping the mattress just enough for Cas to stir.

“Mm,” Cas grunted as he lazily rolled over towards Dean, eyes still closed. “You were gone.”

Dean curled up against his warm body. “Just needed some water.”

Cas wrapped an arm around Dean’s waist, tugging him closer. Dean closed his eyes and inhaled the soothing scent that was purely Cas. Everyone had one that was unique to them — the smell that came from lying asleep for hours — with bedsheets to trap the scent and intensify it. 

“Hey, Cas?”

“Hmm?” came the tired reply.

“Would you let me eat your last frozen burrito?”

Cas halted mid-breath, far too close to the edge of unconsciousness to decipher what exactly the question meant, but trying his best regardless. “I’d let you have all my frozen burritos, Dean.”

“Right, but,” Dean stammered. “But — but what if you were really protective over that last one?”

It was just as vague of a question as before, and far too early in the morning for metaphors, but maybe Cas would mercifully believe this to be a dream and never bring it up again. For a moment, Dean thought maybe Cas had fallen back asleep, but after a few seconds, the response came.

“If my last frozen burrito is what you want, I would gladly give it to you.”

Dean gave a breathy sigh and snuggled closer into the crook of Castiel’s neck. Sleep pulled at his eyelids once more. Enveloped by Cas’ warmth and soothed by rain pattering against the window, Dean closed his eyes, not waking up again until a socially acceptable hour.

* * *

On his way to the library, Cas dropped Dean off at home. After a quick shower, Dean headed to work and pushed thoughts of the night before out of his head. He needed to focus on work. Putting off thoughts of Cas would doubtlessly culminate into an angst fest and was probably a bad idea, but it had never stopped him before. Procrastination was one of his major skills.

Needless to say, Monday was even Monday-er with his and Cas’ first date nagging at the edge of his mind. The way Cas looked at the aquarium with eyes that matched the water, the reflection on his skin, and the way his scent comforted Dean into falling back asleep… That was some romcom shit.

Dean didn’t want to think about what he was feeling. He had been feeling it for an awfully long time. Perhaps this entire time, from the moment he met Cas.

Stuff like that didn’t actually happen, though. Love at first sight, soul mates… At first, Dean even confused it for hate. Over time he came to grips with the fact of what it was  _ not,  _ but like a ton of bricks, he was getting hit with what it  _ was. _

Dean didn’t just want to jump Castiel’s bones. He wanted to learn his middle name and kiss his owies. He wanted to shelf a book upside down just to watch his reaction because the way he got bothered was cute as hell. He wanted everything Cas was — his strengths, quirks, and weaknesses.

There was a phrase for that and Dean wasn’t ready for it.

“Nope,” he told himself as he staggered to the couch with yet another beer. He had been there since he got home from work, having way too much alcohol and wallowing in panic. “You’re overreacting. Just because you slept with him doesn’t mean you’re in lo—” He burped. “E’xcusme,” he slurred to an empty room. “Just because he cuddled you and kissed you good morning and — Oh dammit.”

Bee walked into the apartment, hair caked with motor oil and a BandAid over her nose. She kicked off her boots, watching Dean mentally implode as he sunk into the couch cushions. “Y’alright, there?”

“Screw off,” he barked at her before guzzling down half the bottle. He could sense the acidic gag of incoming vomit, but damn it to hell. He didn’t even like that brand. “I’m tryn’ta be sad and dr—”  _ Hiccup  _ “—drunk.”

She pulled a stained rag from off her shoulder and dabbed at her hairline. “Looks like you’ve succeeded.”

“I can’t — I can’t be in lo—” Mouth already open, Dean lurched forward and vomited all over the floor. In the process, he dropped the bottle, which miraculously did not break, but beer did spill and mix with throw up. The whole scene was a solid eight on a Disgusting Scale between one and ten, but he was in no frame of mind to notice.

If Bee was upset at all by the mess, she kept it to herself, simply tossing Dean the stained rag and heading to the bathroom.

“I can’t,” he whimpered as sweat, puke, and tears dribbled down his chin, falling to join the mixture on the floor. Even drunk he couldn’t force out the words  _ I can’t be in love; I’m too scared  _ — even after talking it out with his roommate and going to bed perfectly content.

Cas being worth the pain was one thing. Admitting he was madly in love? That was a different conversation.

Dean lost track of the minutes that had crawled by. Did he ever clean up his mess? Why did the towel smell like gasoline? All he knew was his last beer bottle was empty and he was no closer to feeling better. He needed something else. Something his roomie grew in her closet.

“Bee,” he said with a knock at the bathroom. “Where do you keep Sal’s Bible?”

“You doin’ Awana or something?” she hollered behind the closed door. 

Dean grunted and shuffled down the hallway, ignoring her when she called his name. If she wasn’t going to be any help, he’d find the damn thing himself. He burst through her bedroom door unceremoniously, scanning the room with double vision. Weed. Paper. Fire. That was all he needed.

His higher brain knew he wouldn’t normally do this. He’d ask politely and offer her some money. He certainly wouldn’t normally be looting through her belongings. But his higher brain wasn’t at home, and he needed to alter his mind somehow. Alcohol alone wasn’t cutting it.

“Dean,” she called from the bathroom again, but louder this time. “I wouldn’t mix weed and booze if I were you.”

“Shaddup,” he mumbled as he swiped up the grinder beside her hemp canvas hammock. He moved her tie dye blanket to find the Bible, worn with pages torn out. “Goddamn hippie.”

He stumbled over to her window. It took several tries to get the friggin’ thing open in his drunken stupor, but he finally cracked it open enough to squeeze through. He tore off a page and tossed the Bible into the corner somewhere, clutching onto the paper and grinder as he ducked down to get through the window.

Bee called his name. She was closer this time.  _ Shit. _

Dean’s head was spinning from all the energy he exuded just to get this far. He couldn’t let her stop him. He was getting onto that overhang, so help him. He grunted and groaned as he struggled to force himself through the half-open window. With one last wiggle, he free-fell onto Bee’s smoking spot, then panicked when a very old science lesson came to bite him in the ass.

Things in motion tend to stay in motion.

He yelped in fright as his body kept rolling. The overhang was slightly angled down, holding little danger to anyone with full control over their body — but Dean was far from in control. He grasped for asphalt shingles, but his fingers were weak from the tingle of alcohol and effort put into opening the window. 

Feeling the emptiness of air beneath him, Dean gave one last swing for the ledge, but to no avail. He was falling, perhaps to his death, from a three-story building, and his last two conversations were about frozen burritos and ripping up Bible pages. What a way to go.


	19. The One With the Unwalled Death Trap

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a series of very bad decisions, Dean comes face to face with one of his biggest fears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen to [Let It Ride](https://youtu.be/vKSUQ9ANoOE)

Dean groaned, eyes squinting as stabbing pain shot through his body. He hurt  _ everywhere.  _ He couldn’t even tell which way was up. All he knew was that he wasn’t dead, but he’d almost prefer it to how he felt at the moment.

He writhed on the ground for a brief second before giving up on that idea. More pain. The ground was soft and wet from rain — perhaps the only reason he was still alive. Maybe. Surely he was at least dying? Nobody could experience this much pain and live.

He spotted Bee out of the corner of his eye. She was climbing down the apartment building, and as his hearing slowly ebbed out of constant ringing, he could hear her screaming his name. He sucked in a stream of air, grimacing at the pain  _ that  _ caused, and squinted his eyes shut in resignation.

Bee landed on her feet and crouched down to get a good look. “Hell,” she hissed. “You look like crap on a cracker.”

“Thanks,” he puffed out, using as few muscle groups as possible. “I think I broke something.”

“You probably broke several somethings,” she replied, standing back up. “Your arm is obviously broken. There’s blood everywhere. We need to get you to the hospital, pronto.”

“Call an ambulance.”

“I ain’t waitin’ for no wee-oo van.”

Dean opened his eyes. “Then call an Uber.”

Bee let out an exasperated breath and shook her head. “You’ll be dripping blood onto their car seats. Not exactly good for ratings.” She started towards the parking lot at a brisk pace.

“Bee,” Dean murmured. “What are you doing?”

“Taking you to the hospital.”

“No,” he whimpered. “Not on the unwalled death trap!”

He barely heard her ornery reply of “die then!” before she was too far away for the sound to travel. The heat and humidity of mid-June beat down on him, like nature was trying to reclaim his broken body. He sobbed in pain, and the sob created more pain, which made him want to sob again, but it would  _ hurt,  _ so he held it in.

A weak, high-pitched whine left him when he heard it. The roar of her engine. The strong, deep putter grew closer until she was as close to the grass as she could get. Dammit, he had to stand up somehow. And then he had to talk her out of taking him to the hospital on that thing.

Fate  _ would  _ do this to him. What a bitch.

“Can you get up?” Bee asked, crouching down again, this time with a helmet on. “Can you feel everything?”

“All too well,” Dean grumbled.

“Okay. Roll onto your side a little.”

Dean grumbled the whole way around, squinting against the acute pain in his arm. The side that took the brunt of the fall hurt the most, but he felt pain everywhere else, too — his head, shoulders, inside his friggin’ body, at least one ankle — yep, this was worse than death.

“On three,” Bee said, hunkered down and poised to lift him up. “One.” Dean took a shallow breath to brace himself. “Sorry.”

He exhaled. “What?”

“Two-three.”

Dean got his answer as she lugged him upward. Every pain he felt in a stationary position multiplied to a nearly unbearable level. He felt nauseous. He felt faint. No longer concerned about the sting inhaling gave him, he gasped in a gulp of air and roared in pain.

“Son of a bitch!”

Bee worked with the momentum his mass afforded her and began stepping them forward. For a few strides it was her supporting his full weight, as he had neither footing nor assurance that either of his feet were in working condition. After some experimentation and a sharp pain up one leg, he cursed under his breath and limped on one foot, alleviating Bee of some of his weight.

As they reached the edge where grass met asphalt, Dean took an unenthusiastic look at the motorcycle. “Hey uh, Bee. All of a sudden I’m feeling a lot better. What do you say we —”

“No.”

“But it’s — ow — it’s not even that bad. I can — ow, son of a — I can ride my bike!”

Bee eased his injured leg over the seat little by little as he sniveled in pain. He scooted back on the seat, his frightened little noises never stopping for one second, even after she put her spare helmet on his head and fastened it.

“Call Cas,” he insisted. “I can ride with Cas! Or Sam, or our weird neighbor downstairs that always gets the mail in his underwear. C’mon, Bee.”

She sat down to drive, unwavering to his every gripe. He was about to start up again when the unexpected sound of Led Zeppelin flooded his ears, and in the shocking moment it took him to realize there were speakers in his helmet, she had taken off. 

He darted his eyes around without moving his head much, just as much out of pain as fear. His heart raced as she accelerated, wind cutting through his clothes and making him feel exposed. His only comfort was Robert Plant’s voice in his ears and the promise of good drugs from the comfort of a hospital bed.

It was all so horrible. He got drunk and did something stupid. What award awaited him on the other side of this near-death experience? A high-speed ride to hell without as much as a seatbelt to give him a fighting chance.

The cars around them stopped at a red light and Bee weaved slowly through congested traffic, inching closer to the white line. Dean’s bad arm throbbed. The Rain Song tranquilly rang through the helmet speakers, a far cry from the horror he was experiencing. He slumped forward in sheer exhaustion.

“Not even a windshield,” he grumbled loudly against Bee’s shoulder.

She turned her head so her back-warmer could hear her shouted reply. “I am your windshield. If we become road pizza I’ll get crushed first.”

“Thanks, that’s very assuring.”

“Hold on,” she reminded him as the light turned green.

Dean gulped and smashed his eyes shut. He couldn’t bear to look anymore. He had already seen enough. The trauma would be too much. He would get flashbacks of this moment for eternity. If his injuries didn’t kill him, the ride to the hospital would. And if that didn’t, the PTSD would.

* * *

Broken arm, ribs, and collarbone. Internal bleeding. Fractured ankle. Concussion. The list was long but surgery was longer. Dean’s crusty eyes struggled to open after the whole ordeal was over, meeting a room full of harsh white light and that too-sterile hospital smell used to cover the stench of death.

He heard his brother’s voice and instinctively tried to turn his head, which turned out to be impossible. Whatever the surgeon had strapped onto him, it was sturdy. Instead, he lifted his arm — the relatively uninjured one — to wave, which grabbed Sam’s attention.

“Dean,” he sighed in relief as he approached the bed. “You made it!”

“You’re acting mighty surprised?” Dean retorted with a disapproving look at his little brother towering over the hospital bed. “You counting on inheriting my stuff or something?”

Sam blew out a humored exhale. “You could’ve died. Most people who fall from three stories do.”

“Dean,” a much deeper voice rumbled from the side.

Straining his eyes as far over as possible, Dean beamed as Castiel walked into his line of sight. “Cas, long time no see.”

Cas smirked as he and Sam stood by the hospital bed. “I’m very glad to see you in the land of the living.”

Dean’s forehead wrinkled in confusion. “Why is everyone acting so shocked I’m not dead?”

“At first the doctors were concerned you might have a contusion,” Sam supplied gently. “Head trauma can cause swelling inside the brain that can be life-threatening.”

“You were also losing a lot of blood from your broken arm, as well as internally,” said Cas. “We believe your soft fall is to be credited to your lack of serious head trauma.”

“I wouldn’t exactly call it soft,” Dean mumbled, a majority of the pain a distant memory as morphine coursed through his veins.

“Softer than it would’ve been without the rain,” Sam revised. “And we credit your roommate for getting you here before you could bleed out.”

Dean looked to the side again, as far as possible with whatever gadgetry the doctors and nurses had strapped to him. “We sent her home once we both got here,” Cas explained. Dean looked down at the cast around his arm and the little finger pulse oximeter. The rest of him was covered with one of those thin hospital blankets, but his foot was probably wrapped in something as well.

“Apparently,” Sam continued, clearing his throat, “you wanted to ‘ride your bike’ all the way here.”

Dean sighed and rolled his eyes. “Look, it’s — I just didn’t wanna…”

“If you had gotten here any other way, it might have been too late,” Sam interrupted. “So she made the right call. Love it or hate it, she and the scary naked engine of death saved your ass.”

He avoided eye contact with either one, looking off into the hallway where the occasional nurse scurried by. “I guess it wasn’t  _ that  _ bad,” he admitted.  _ But I’m not getting back on it,  _ he thought to himself smugly.

The rest of the visit was less heavy with “you could have died” talk, much to Dean’s relief. Sam and Cas said goodbye after Dean started yawning and drifting off. Who knew surgery could make him so damn tired? After waking up being rolled out of ICU and into a regular room he was ready to go home. The hospital bed wasn’t comfortable. The food the nurse left him sucked. Did these people not understand the concept of salt?

Bee’s whole garage showed up the next morning. They only stayed a few minutes but it was nice to see everybody. The faint smell of gasoline was a welcomed change from the stagnant air he had breathed the past twenty four hours. Cole and Victor talked about the gator in the pickup truck; they were so excited, Dean didn’t have the heart to tell them he had already heard the story. Ketch was quiet, per the usual, but left with well wishes once they all had to head to work.

Speaking of work, Dean picked up the landline by his bedside and placed an outgoing call. It was about the time he’d be leaving for work, if he could even walk. The boss was going to be pissed.

“Dagon’s Plumbing,” came the usual brash answer with outdoor noise in the background. Damn, she was already ass-deep in the mud with the crew and all the pipes he had laid out before the weekend.

Yep, she was going to be pissed.

“It’s Dean.”

“Winchester,” she greeted with an air of confusion. “I didn’t recognize the number.”

“That’s ‘cause I’m calling from the hospital,” Dean explained. “I had an accident.”

“Oh?”

“Broken ribs, arm, ankle and some other crap,” he summarized. “I’m gonna be out for a while.”

She whistled. “Hoo boy, that’s going to suck up all your sick days, and then some.”

Dean swallowed thickly. “Uh —”

“I’ll see what I can do for PTO and vacation, but if you’re out much longer than that,” she paused to click her tongue, “it’s not going to be good for you, Winchester.”

“Wait,” Dean moved the mouthpiece to let out an aggravated sigh. “I can count on one hand the number of days I’ve called out. I was late one day last week, and that was my first time.”

“And I am super grateful for a track record like that.”

“No you’re not,” he huffed a mirthless laugh. “I broke at least four bones and all you care about is how to assign my time code?”

“You don’t show up for work, you get a no-show,” she deadpanned. “That’s how this works. You know that and so does everybody else.”

Dean couldn’t even shake his head to comfort himself with denial. A lump rose in his throat that he couldn’t force down. He began to sweat nervously. His heart monitor beeped faster. “Is — is there any other way to — Can I buy time from next year? From someone else? I just —”

“You just started in April so no time accrued for next year. And I’m not sure how they do things in Tallahassee, but buying time from workmates isn’t a thing in my company.”

The conversation was going nowhere way too fast — had been for a while — and the nurses were going to freak out once they saw his blood pressure. Dean took a shaky intake of air. “I’ll let you know when the doctor gives me a date.”

Without a goodbye, wish for a speedy recovery, or even a fuck you, his boss hung up, leaving Dean alone with nothing but a beeping monitor above him and dial tone in his ear. So this was how it was going to end. He had busted his ass for this company, and this was how they would repay him? By counting down his recovery time until he was a no-call, no-show, then cut him loose? This was bad.

This was  _ very  _ bad.

What the hell was he supposed to do after his body was back in working condition and he had no job? Dean’s stomach twisted into a knot thinking about having to explain to Cas that he was jobless and soon-to-be homeless.  _ Nobody wants to date a jobless loser,  _ Dean lamented silently.  _ Not even a degree or nothing. Just intimate knowledge of plumbing and upcoming rent. _

Rent.

Dean’s phone beeped from across the room. It was plugged in to charge — a courteous gesture from either Sam or Cas, albeit a useless one at a moment like this when he needed to see who texted him without full use of his legs. As if fate didn’t hate him so much after all, a nurse walked in to check on him.    
  
“Guess who’s just about ready to leave intensive care,” the sweet older black woman said as she evaluated the state of his vitals and the notes on his clipboard. “Need anything before we head to a regular room, sugar?” She had kind eyes and a quiet smile. Her name tag read Missouri Mosely, RN. 

“Just my phone. Oh!” he thought suddenly. “And one of those pudding cups.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” she said with a sly smile before setting his phone on the bed. 

Dean’s smile fell as soon as she left the room. His savings account was a joke; how was he supposed to pay rent and utilities after losing his job? He needed to find something else, and he would have plenty of time to do it. But what if he had the same luck as he always had?

Sam couldn’t take him in. There was a chance Cas would let him bunk for a little while, but it would be cramped and Charlie might or might not agree to it. Dean pushed the thoughts aside to check who texted him.

Bee.

Dean bit his lip, fear rising into his chest and a sudden wave of sadness coursing through him that had nothing to do with the drugs he was hooked up to. He dropped the phone back on the bed, not mentally ready to face whatever the text said. It was all too damn much.

He had been an ass to her anyway, from the day he moved in. Maybe he deserved to be kicked out onto the street. Dean rubbed his eyes, red from waking up and falling asleep at odd times, or maybe because he was so scared his feelings were catching up to him.

But if Dean wasn’t going to do his part of paying rent, what was she going to do?

“Dammit,” he hissed. It was going to happen again. She was going to be evicted…  _ again.  _ And it was going to be his fault. Some tenant he was.

Some brother he was.

Some boyfriend he was.


	20. The One With the Front Display

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean works around the clock to complete his front display, while leaking as little information as possible about why he fell out of a window.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen to [No Sugar Tonight](https://youtu.be/yMG-Mi9I0-k)

“Dean, the spray foam is dry,” Cas said, carrying a maroon spray-painted blob into one of the staff-only back rooms behind the circulation desk. “Are the tentacles ready to glue on?”   
  


Dean sat at a table, surrounded by cut-up pool noodles painted that same maroon and in deep concentration over cutting suction cups off a dollar store math mat. It was a difficult feat with one arm in a cast, but in three days he had already adjusted to taking a shower with all his broken limbs. Learning how to function in two casts was complicated. Scissors? Not so much.

“Just about done,” he replied, setting down the bath mat to poke Cas with a pool noodle. “After this, I’ll put it all together and voila.” 

It was amazing how much time he had on his hands without work taking up a third of his day. Since getting discharged, he spent his days at the library, tirelessly assembling his aquarium display. Cas had become more supportive of the lofty goal overnight, but Dean had his suspicions that it was out of pity.

Cas eyed Dean’s projects scattered across the back room. The foam and pool noodle squid was almost done. They had ditched the shark door and submarine ideas, going for a cluster of coral made of cardboard and streamer seaweed instead. “I must say, you have accomplished much more than I predicted.”

Dean puffed up with pride and returned to chopping up the bath mat. “Aw, don’t sell yourself short, Cas. Couldn’t have done it without my trusty sidekick.”

“Sidekick,” Cas rasped under his breath with a humored tug at the corner of his mouth. 

“Mm-hm. Such a great bonding experience for the man in charge and his lovely assistant.”

He didn’t need to lift his head to know the scathing glare Cas was wearing. The list of ways to ruffle his feathers was short, but usurping his authority over library affairs was on there. Dean fought against a nervous smile and lost, finally raising his head to see Cas with one brow up and an expression that dared Dean to say a word more.

He cleared his throat, his pants growing suddenly tight in the crotch. “Looks like I’m the head bitch in charge of this nerditorium now.”

  
The wheels in Castiel’s head turned for enough time to build a healthy dose of suspense. “Very well, Dean,” he said, gingerly setting the foam squid head on the project table. “I’ll leave you to inform Mr. Boone — for the fifth time — that the Kama Sutra he requested is available to pick up.”

Dean’s forehead creased. “Mr. Boone? Not the ninety-year-old guy with the toupe?”

“The same,” Cas replied with a slow nod. “Oh, and you’ll also need to handle the media coverage and communicate with local police regarding the body found behind the building yesterday afternoon. Since you  _ are  _ the 'head bitch in charge’, as you so eloquently put it.”

Dean blinked. “I thought Jane was making that up.”

“You’ll also have to do the final sign-off on computer literacy class, as well as fulfill all circulation and cataloging duties, process purchases and shipments, field emails, reshelving —”

Closing his eyes, Dean tilted his head and made snoring sounds.

“You would also need to find a new clerk for book sales,” Cas finished smugly, effectively tearing Dean out of his fake sleep at the mention of no longer doing his favorite Thursday night job. “You’ll be hard at work doing so many other things, after all.”

“Nah, I can make other people do all that.”

Cas peered at him and leaned on the table, closing in enough that Dean was forced to bend slightly backward to keep their eyes locked. “And what exactly do you plan on doing instead?”

Their close proximity made Dean’s blood hot with want, all rushing to his dick and begging the little distance between them to be eradicated. His neck began to ache from looking directly up at Cas. Dean looked him up and down, scanning Cas’ navy microdot button-down and cuffed burgundy jeans before answering.

“I mean… You. Repeatedly.”

The corner of Cas’ gave a slight twitch, so tiny Dean wouldn’t have seen if he was any farther away. “Should you be exerting that sort of energy with an arm in a sling, an ankle brace, and ribs and collarbone that have barely begun to heal?”

Dean pouted like he always did when someone brought up a point he hadn’t considered. “I could always lie back and let you have your way with me.”

“Although the offer is generous, knowing you are in pain would take all the fun out of it. It’s not fair that only one of us would be enjoying ourselves.”

It was decided, then. No getting it on until Dean could move around without feeling like his body was being ripped apart. Oh, well. It was worth a try.

Dean opted for a change of subject. “You going to Gay Days?”

Castiel took a seat at the table and helped himself to the glue and bath mat suction cups. “Charlie asked me the same thing. I suppose it might be fun.”

“It’s a lot of fun when you have someone to go with,” Dean attested. “All of us could carpool?” It was a shot in the dark, as he was still figuring out where Cas capped at social interaction, so the suggestion was more of a question than a statement.

To his delight, Cas agreed with a nod and half-smile. “Which park?” he asked while gluing a tentacle to the squid head. “Hollywood Studios sounds fun. I haven’t been.”

“That’s settled then,” Dean replied decidedly. 

They completed their last project in relative silence, asking each other to pass the glue or scissors every once in a while. Dean had spent entire days at the library and all of his work was starting to pay off. Bigger projects spanning days were coming together. After the glue dried on the squid, all that was left was assembling the display.

“When do you go back to work?”

Dean paused from breathing at the mention of the elephant in the room. Cas was bound to have brought it up eventually, but the casualness of the question hit Dean in a way that made his stomach churn. To Cas or anyone else, it was like talking about the weather, which was to be expected, as Dean hadn’t disclosed his fate to anyone. He strove to match the tone, unwilling to stir unnecessary worry.

“Six to eight weeks, doctor’s orders,” he replied as he held a freshly glued tentacle to the squid’s body. “I should be at least up and walking by Gay Days, though.”

“Take the full amount of time off. You need to heal,” Cas instructed with no further questions about work. “Walking for hours at a time will be painful. We can rent a scooter from the park.”

To Dean’s relief, changing the subject distracted Cas from asking further questions about work. He was planning on telling Cas eventually —  _ really, he was _ — but the timing wasn’t right. Who could say whether or not Cas would even be willing or able to help? They had barely started dating. Dean was many things, but a moocher wasn’t one of them.

Besides, things could change between now and then. He could heal miraculously quickly and be back to work before all his sick days were spent. He might find a new job. His boss might come to her senses by considering how much cheaper it would be to excuse his absence than hiring and training a newbie.

It was too wide a web of if’s, and’s, and but’s. He couldn’t let that many people start worrying about him like that. For now, it was going to be just him and his own crippling fear of his life falling apart. 

Dean took a look at his sprawling pool noodle squid and sighed. Yep, everything was fine. 

Everything was totally fine.

* * *

“That’s — not —  _ an aquarium book!” _

Cas’ face was bright red and his big blue eyes bugged out of his head like a Black Moor Goldfish — which  _ did  _ belong in an aquarium, as opposed to the subject at hand. He clutched the book in horror, yanking it back as Dean tried to swipe it away.

“Why not? Fish live in aquariums,” Dean reasoned, trying to hide a guilty grin. He took an approving look at the finished display. “Setting the books out was my job and I say it fits the theme.”

“It’s a sushi cookbook.”

Dean shrugged the best he could on one crutch. “And?”

One of Castiel’s eyes twitched.

“I can’t believe you’d dismantle the work of a cripple,” Dean lamented. “After all the work I put into it, too. If you think about it, a sushi cookbook makes all kinds of sense. Sushi has fish. Aquariums also have fish. Both have uncooked fish. And seaweed…”

“No,” Cas gritted harshly, jutting out an index finger. “You might as well have added books on submarine volcanoes to the display.”

As good of an idea it was, Dean hadn’t done it, but just to screw with Cas, he lifted a brow and dragged his eyes over the display despairingly. As expected, Cas let out an exasperated huff and began inspecting every book. Unable to hold back any longer, Dean gave into laughter as Cas grew increasingly displeased.

“This isn’t funny, Dean,” he grumbled as he neared the end of the display. “What if someone wants to borrow the volcano book and no one knows to look here?”

Dean finished chuckling and half-walked, half-hopped over to Cas on his crutch. “Calm down, Giles. I didn’t put any volcano books on there.”

Cas took a cleansing breath, standing up straight again in relief. Seeing him all riled up was a rarity Dean didn’t abuse but had oh, so much fun when the opportunity arose. Planting a sushi book in an aquarium display was the most fun he’d had since Sunday and although he regretted nothing, it would be a while before Cas trusted him with a front display again.

After he had a moment to recover from Dean’s prank, Cas took another look at the squid, cardboard coral and streamer seaweed drawing in the eye to the carefully selected books about underwater life. “Intentionally incongruous addition aside, you did a lovely job, Dean.” He cradled the book under his arm like he did every time he was about to reshelve something.

Dean smiled at the decorated table. He wouldn’t have been able to pull it off without Cas, especially in the condition his fall left him in, but the compliment was still nice. As much as he’d like to stand around and admire his work for the rest of the night, he needed to sit back down. Standing on a crutch was making his good side hurt and it was almost time to take his pain meds again.

“You should stay over for a few minutes tonight,” he suggested. “You’ve been picking me up and dropping me off since I busted outta the hospital. If you ain’t sick of seeing my face yet, I’ll give you the grand tour of all 800 square feet of my apartment, minus my roommate’s turf.”

Cas glanced at the clock and dug a set of keys out of his pocket. “We close in three minutes. I’ll put away this monstrosity you call an aquarium book if you start the car.”

* * *

Dean knew he wasn’t getting lucky tonight. Cas had already turned down the chance to ravish him in his post-surgery vulnerability, even after the bug in his ear Dean put there in the library back room. He really shouldn’t be wishing this hard for a change of mind.

He really, really shouldn’t. 

Cas insisted Dean sit down as soon as they walked inside. He didn’t fight that suggestion, as his whole body ached in some way or another. His healing limbs needed meds. His good side was tired of supporting his bad side. Finishing the display had worn him out, but Cas straddling his lap and kissing him stupid?

None of the pain mattered anymore. Sure, he still felt it. But it didn’t matter. His dick was poking at Cas’ butt through all their clothes. His priorities had changed. 

“I have an idea,” Dean said after another kiss. “I visit your place, you top. You visit my place, I top.”

Cas tilted his head in thought. “Deal,” he agreed.

Stroking the hair at the back of Cas’ neck, Dean smirked and glanced towards his room. “Fan-freaking-tastic. There’s lube under the bed.”

“Dean,” Cas said in a cautionary tone. “What were the doctor’s orders, again?”   


“No-strenuous-physical-activity- _ but-Cas,”  _ he rattled off in one word. “It’s not strenuous if you’re the one bouncing on my lap.”

Cas lifted an eyebrow, clearly not opposed to the idea  _ in theory _ but disapproving of the specifics of their situation. The thought of Cas riding him made Dean even harder and adding that vaguely miffed brow was  _ definitely  _ going in the spank bank.

“You could still pull something, and I’m not explaining myself to the nurses,” Cas explained with as much pesky rationale as always. He slipped his arms around Dean’s shoulders. “Does this hurt?”

Dean’s collarbone twinged slightly. “Only a little.”

Immediately removing his hands, Cas let out a little huff. “Even in a seated position, sex can be physically taxing and I won’t purposefully do anything that hurts you.”

As he spoke, Cas repositioned himself over Dean’s lap. Although the purpose was for comfort, grinding against Dean’s dick was a nice side effect. By the end of Cas’ sincere declaration, Dean’s softening erection wasn’t soft anymore. A groan rumbled in his throat.

“That didn’t hurt,” he declared suggestively.

Cas sighed and shook his head. Then he kissed Dean’s cheeky grin off his face.


	21. The One At Disney World

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The group's outing turns out to be more eventful than anticipated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen to [Ballad of Florida Mant](https://youtu.be/3_olWGaPJzQ)

Although his ankle was healed enough to walk on, Dean wasn’t about to spend all day at Hollywood Studios on his feet for the sake of looking tough. There were things more important than walking around for eight hours, namely getting back to normal before all his sick days were up. There was no point in acting macho if it would add time to his recovery period.

Even so, he googled the park’s mobility scooters ahead of time and was, quite frankly, unimpressed. The battery life was questionable, the basket was tiny, and there was nowhere to set his bi flag. That was why he rolled up to the park, separate from his party, in a scooter acquired by his own means. He wore a shit-eating grin as Cas, Charlie, and Bee watched him cruise up to Cas’ car sitting in the parking lot.

“Morning, sunshine,” Dean greeted brightly after Cas rolled down his window. The rest of his party sat in the air-conditioned car with varying looks of bewilderment, but he was too focused on the driver’s tousled hair and blue eyes peeking through dark sunglasses to mind the passengers.

“Good morning Dean,” Cas replied with a bemused smirk.

Charlie rolled her window down in the back and gave the whole scooter an up-and-down look. “And what do we have here?”

Dean used his thumb to point to the full-sized bi flag sticking out of the back of his scooter. “It’s called pride, sweetie. Look it up.”

“Bee,” Cas said with a look into the rearview mirror as Charlie rolled her eyes. “Where did he get the scooter?”

“Don’t worry about it,” Dean interrupted as he reached into the tiny vehicle’s monstrous basket and brought out a bag of pretzels. He pulled it open and dug in.

“I don’t think they’re gonna let you bring that in, Mr. ‘Dubs,” Bee piped up.

“It’s medicinal,” he mumbled through a mouthful. After the windows rolled up and Cas cut the engine, everyone got out and followed Dean up the nearest curb ramp. Everyone had on their Gay Days best, and although it wasn’t a typical pride fest in the strictest sense, it was fun to put themselves on blast, even just for a day.

A week prior, Dean was about to click Order Now on his bisexual pride flag, then added an asexual one for Bee on a whim. His order showed up two days later and he opened the box once she came home, tossing her the plastic-encased black, gray, white, and purple flag and watched her face light up when she unfurled it. She hugged him before he had a chance to take his pink, purple, and blue one out of the box.

Dean’s bi flag waved in the wind behind his scooter and Bee carried her ace one over her shoulder. She and Charlie walked hand-in-hand while Castiel dictated his and Dean’s pace. It was weird trying to match his exact speed, and Dean quickly realized how inconsistent human walking speed was, especially in a crowd intent on getting inside a theme park.

Charlie and Cas had on t-shirts that expressed their pride, undoubtedly Charlie’s idea. Hers was tie-dyed in the lesbian rainbow colors. They were striped and only slightly overlapped in some places, suggesting a home-dyed job. Cas’ shirt was undeniably custom-ordered, reading “My anaconda might want some if we’ve established an intimate emotional connection, hun” on the front, with a rainbow flag featuring the black demi triangle on the back.

Yep, definitely Charlie’s doing. There was no way Cas would order that, or even get the reference, for that matter.

Once they were inside, the great first ride debate began. Charlie wanted to head straight for Star Wars: Galaxy’s Edge, which was on the opposite side of the park. Dean’s vote was on Indiana Jones Epic Stunt Spectacular because it was nearby and  _ absolutely not because _ of his life-long crush on Harrison Ford. Eventually, they agreed to browse the shops together near the park entrance and go on at least one ride together before splitting up.

The compromise between Dean and Charlie’s attractions of choice turned out to be a motion-simulated space flight that made the whole group keenly aware of one detail they had overlooked in their excitement: empty stomachs. After the 3D ride and a long moment to recover from motion sickness, they headed for a nearby cafe.

“So,” Bee said between bites of fried chicken, “what’s so gay about Gay Days?”

Charlie glanced up from her plate at the nearest souvenir shop, where rainbow keychains and hats sat front and center outside. “Capitalism,” she answered.

“Gay Days isn’t actually made by Disney, it’s just  _ at  _ Disney,” Dean said.

Bee narrowed her eyes. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

“It’s run by a third-party,” he explained. “They run their meetings off-site. Here it’s just another day, but with more people wearing their pride stuff. Plus the park puts out all their rainbow crap.”

“Like I said,” Charlie summarized, “Capitalism.”

Humming her acknowledgement, Bee took a quick scan of their surroundings before digging into her pocket for the goods she smuggled in. They had chosen a relatively secluded spot, which was saying a lot for a Disney park. Their table sat tucked away in a corner, between the cafe, a fence, and a shady tree. The basket on Dean’s scooter took up too much room for him to park facing the table, so he faced toward the corner, allowing Bee to be the guard on duty. He ate in relative peace, paying no mind to the park’s hustle and bustle behind him until her face turned tense.

She slipped her joint out of her mouth, doubtlessly practiced if her speed was any clue. “The hell are they doin’ here?”

Dean craned his neck as far as he could. “Dammit,” he hissed as he spotted a police officer barely cross his line of vision. The officer meandered around the common area, surrounded by throngs of people and clearly on a mission. He wasn’t facing them, and Dean didn’t know if he just hadn’t looked that way yet or if they really were that well-hidden.

“Is something the matter?” Cas asked, beginning to turn in his seat.

Dean grasped Cas’ hand, distracting him from drawing attention to them by turning the rest of the way. “Don’t,” he said flatly. “It’s the cops.”

“I’m sure they’re simply patrolling the area,” Cas presumed. 

Dean shook his head. “Nah, they’re on the prowl.”

“For…?” Charlie prodded. When Dean and Bee gave each other a quick glance, Charlie let out an aggravated breath. “Great. What have you two criminals been up to now?”

“We gotta go,” Dean clipped, stacking everyone’s plates and using the last napkin to wipe his mouth. “Let’s split. We’ll meet up with you ladies at Sunset Boulevard in a few hours.”

Charlie and Cas made a couple of confused noises that tapered off as Bee sprang into action and Dean rolled out from under the tree. Dean led the way into Grand Avenue, taking one last look behind him before veering off into the men’s restroom with Cas close behind. There were no cops in sight but for good measure, Dean hid them in the largest stall.

“Why are we running from the police?” Cas inquired. 

“Don’t worry about it,” Dean said casually, his flag bumping against the wall as he backed his scooter into the stall. “Just go with the flow.” The sound of someone peeing at a urinal added a marginal play on words.

Cas remained collected as always, but sighed lightly. “Is this something for which I could be charged as an accessory to a crime? I haven’t been in trouble with the law since climbing on a roof to get better lighting.”

“What? No,” Dean insisted dramatically. “I think you’re just jealous of my ride.”

“That’s certainly not —”

“I think you wanna ride in my basket.”

Cas turned his nose up. “The thought had never occurred to me.”

“You’re a terrible liar,” Dean deadpanned. “Admit it. Looks fun, huh?”

Cas’ expression did not waver, although he did glance down to eye the spacious basket. “In theory, it could prove to be amusing.”

Dean grinned and tapped the inside of it. “Get in. I’ll carry you to Rise of the Resistance.”

Although he tilted his head, clearly intrigued by the concept, Cas showed no signs of giving in, instead folding his arms across his chest in an attempt at defensiveness. Dean pursed his lips, unblinking as Cas stood perfectly still, as if any movement at all would push him right into the basket.

“I’ll blow you,” Dean offered.

Cas’ shoulders sagged in resignation. Dean watched in triumph as Cas’ stony look melted, then smiled ear to ear as Cas unfolded his arms to unzip his shorts.

* * *

Dean’s passenger garnered more than one strange look on their way to Galaxy’s Edge. Coupled with the strained engine sounds from the scooter’s weight limit nearing capacity and the full-sized flag flowing behind, it was quite a sight. As much of a scene as they made, he was on high alert, as the cops would have no problem picking him out of the crowd.

Even so, the trip to their next ride was enjoyable. If Dean was honest, he kind of liked the attention. Most people who caught a glimpse looked away with a smile or a laugh. Only a few glared at him like he needed Jesus, but either way, he won, because every one of those fuckers would leave the park thinking of him and his handsome passenger.

They had no sooner finished Rise of the Resistance and were meandering around the nearby gift shop when Charlie rounded a corner wearing an Ewok hat and rainbow shutter glasses. 

“Dudes!” she exclaimed, nearly colliding into Dean’s scooter. Bee followed close behind, also wearing rainbow shutter glasses and carrying her ace flag over her shoulder.

Cas came to Dean’s side from a souvenir coin press. Dean chuckled nervously at the way Charlie lowered her shades to glare at him. “Uh, heya ladies —”

“The grocery store, Dean? Really? That’s where you  _ stole  _ that scooter from?”

Dean’s heart fell into his stomach. “Okay, for one: I  _ borrowed  _ it. Secondly,” he paused to face Bee, “how could you betray me like this?”

“I didn’t tell her which grocery store! Besides,” Bee looked down at the pink stuffed bear tucked snuggly under her arm, “she did that thing I like.”

“You can’t just spill your secrets every time your girlfriend buys you a stuffed animal,” Dean grumbled.

To his horror, Bee shuffled her arm around to reveal another, smaller stuffed bear.

Dean ran his hands over his face and huffed loudly. “What else did you tell her?”

Bee gulped. “The coconut oil story.”

“Not the coconut oil story!” Dean wailed, drawing the attention of every person in the souvenir shop. “Seriously? Is nothing sacred to you?”

Charlie smirked. “Oh come on, it’s not that bad. Coconut oil is good for lots of things, so you were on the right track.”

Castiel furrowed his brows. “I feel as if I am missing some vital information.”

“Sure, I had the concept down,” Dean rambled. “I plopped a dollop of coconut oil in the bathtub, sprinkled some Epsom salts, and filled ‘er up. Man, I felt like a king. Everything was a-okay… until I tried to get out.”

Unable to hold back any longer, Charlie erupted into bursts of giggles. “How long were you stuck in the tub?”

“Forty-five friggin’ minutes,” Dean recalled, rubbing his temples as he relived the traumatic event. “No thanks to blabbermouth over there.”

“Ain’t no way I was going in that bathroom,” Bee said. “Your brother came over and pulled you out because I called him.”

“After you finished laughing at me.”

“Word.”

“There was no traction, nothing to hold onto. Nothing,” Dean said as Charlie cackled and Cas and Bee tried very hard to keep straight faces. “Just me and my slippery ass thrashing around like a fish out of water.”

Objectively, it’d make a good headline. He could see why everyone was cracking up. It seemed like a good idea at the time: he was freshly out of an ankle brace and wanted to celebrate being able to submerge his legs in water again. A relaxing bath was just the thing. Maybe if he hadn’t been the one to be trapped in a porcelain prison, encased in coconut oil, he would be laughing too.

The distinctive sight of an officer’s uniform came and went out of the corner of his eye, along with a young man who looked out of place to everyone else, but not Dean: a Walmart employee, complete with the vest and name tag.

“Son of a bitch, I’m out,” Dean mumbled, cruising in reverse to get away from the front of the shop. He couldn’t be sure whether the officer was still outside or not, but he wasn’t sticking around to find out. 

Cas, Charlie, and Bee scattered as soon as they registered what was going on, barely a second after Dean began backing up. Unfortunately, he couldn’t see the sunglasses stand behind him and sent it crashing to the floor, drawing the attention of the cashier and several park guests. Outside passers-by whispered among themselves judgmentally. A nearby toddler began wailing in fright.

Amid the chaos, the police officer and store employee glanced around, curious as to the origin of all the noise. Before they could scan the souvenir shop, Dean’s company sprang into action. Bee cleared the fallen sunglasses stand in a single bound. Charlie dove into a corner of toys, slipping a Skip It around her ankle and prancing out of the shop in all of her rainbow shutter and Ewok hat glory.

Cas hefted the sunglasses stand back upright, offering the shell-shocked cashier a sympathetic nod before scurrying out of the shop entrance farthest away from Dean. By this time the police had spotted Charlie skipping among the crowds with the still-tagged toy around her ankle. The officer yelled out something at her, waving and baking a beeline towards her, but was thwarted by Cas deliberately walking  _ just a tad too close,  _ crossing their ankles and sending them both tumbling to the ground.

He collapsed across the officer’s legs with a huff, immediately showering him with apologies. Once they were both up, Charlie had skipped off to who-knows-where and the Walmart employee watched from a safe distance at the strange turn of events. Cas pretended not to see as Bee walked directly behind the employee, stealthily slipping her joint into his vest pocket before disappearing into the crowd.

Cas looked from the oblivious employee to the police officer, who was saying something into his radio. “Well,” he directed to the officer after doing some quick thinking, “after all this excitement, I believe I will ride on something relaxing. Would you happen to have a park map?”

The officer patted down his pockets instinctively before shaking his head. “No,” he answered, then glanced up at the store employee, who was patiently waiting for the search for the scooter thief to resume. “But I think he grabbed one on the way in.”

His voice projected enough for the employee to hear. The young man dug around in his pants pockets at first, then his vest, only to freeze in fear at the distinctive shape he was feeling. He stared wide-eyed at the officer and took a step back, refusing to take his hand out of his pocket and too shocked by the joint there to respond about the park map.

“What’cha got there, kid?” the policeman asked, taking careful steps towards him. “Take your hands out of your pockets.”

Cas had stuck around long enough. Spinning around and surveying the area, he took long strides in the direction that made the most sense for someone in a scooter whose battery was most likely running low: downhill and from the area the police had already covered. He left the scene, the Walmart employee insisting the weed wasn’t his and the cop growing less patient by the second.

Sure enough, Dean was facing away from him, rolling back towards Grand Avenue with the occasional speed-walker passing him. Cas caught up to him at a brisk pace, slowing down before appearing in front of him so as not to make him think they were being chased. His breath was still heavy but he gave what he hoped was a convincing nod, the corner of his mouth turned up as Dean brought the scooter to a standstill and looked up at him expectantly.

“What the hell happened back there?” Dean asked, his wide green eyes glad to see him but still carrying worry. 

“I’m still not entirely sure myself,” Cas admitted, eyes darting around for a more private place to wait out the ongoing patrol. Plus, they would need to regroup with the girls. Being wanted was putting a damper on what the rest of their park visit would look like. “There,” he said, pointing to an area heavy with foliage. “Behind those bushes.”

Dean drove into the small clearing, Cas following close behind. “Are they the bushes of love?”   
  


Cas scrunched his brows. “What?”

“Dude, Bad Lip Reading. Complete with Obi Wan Kenobi. Would it kill you to watch a YouTube video?”

Even while alluding to things Castiel would have never dreamed of familiarizing himself with, Dean was adorable. The relentless Florida sun brought out freckles Cas had never seen before, plus the lips that spoke of such strange-sounding videos were chapped and begging to be kissed.

For all of the pride Cas took in being well-read, knowing Dean was like stepping into a completely different universe. He was an endless wealth of knowledge previously unknown — uncomprehended, even — and Cas was intent on reading every word. Not primarily the pop culture references, although if Dean spoke of them, Cas would listen, just for the joy of hearing him speak.

More than that, Cas wanted to pick Dean’s brain for questions that only he would know. Over the past few months, he had gotten a taste of knowing the wonder that was Dean Winchester, and he wanted  _ more.  _ What things in life did he value the most? Where was he at his happiest? Did he harbor guilt or fear, and if so, how could Cas make it better?

Cas wanted to take his place in the vast collection of Dean’s thoughts, dreams, and feelings, continuing to make connections between Dean’s soul and his own. He wanted to learn him through and through, like a man gradually building himself from student to scholar. Dean constantly gave him more to store, organize, curate; he was Castiel’s own private library.

“What are you lookin’ at?” Dean teased.

Cas climbed into the scooter’s gigantic cart and kissed that smug grin right off Dean’s face. “You evaded the police on this thing,” he said, more a statement than a question, “when walking at a brisk pace would have gotten you further?”

“I’m not gonna abandon the vehicle I intend on returning to Walmart,” Dean defended. “I told you guys, I’m  _ borrowing  _ it.” 

Before he could make a comeback, Cas spotted someone peering at them through the foliage. To his dismay, the person spying on them turned the corner, revealing himself to be a different police officer than last time. He spoke into his radio and a short time later, the cop from before came into view, pulling along the Walmart employee by a pair of handcuffs.

Cas sat wide-eyed in the basket of Dean’s mode of transportation as the young man in cuffs affirmed to the cops that the vehicle in question was, in fact, a mobility scooter owned by Walmart. The officer who found them approached, and Cas and Dean shared one last defeated look before surrendering to the authorities.

* * *

Dean was sprawled out on the couch with a bag of chips and a gameshow on medium volume. Normally he wouldn’t have it up this loud, but tonight he was snacking too hard for anything below 15. His arm was still in a sling and his leg only hurt minimally from having to walk out of the park, but all things considered, he couldn’t complain.

He had gotten off easy. The young guy from Walmart didn’t want to press charges; he was just there to make sure the police repo’d the correct scooter instead of taking one from some poor old guy who traveled from Oregon and just wanted to see his grandkids meet Buzz and Woody. If the first cop recognized Cas he never put two and two together, but Dean didn’t expect much less from the local fuzz.

His phone rang, and his brows creased disapprovingly as a chip fell from his lips. “Who the hell is calling at this time of night?” he grumbled, fumbling around in his sweatpants pocket for his phone.

It was Benny.

“The hell?” he breathed before answering. He hadn’t heard from the guy since Tallahassee. “Hello?”

“Dean,” the man’s jovial voice rang through.

Dean’s shoulders relaxed. By the tone of his voice, nothing had gone terribly wrong. “Hey, Benny. Long time.”

“You know it, brother,” Benny said brightly. “I feel terrible for not keepin’ in touch. How’s work goin’?”

“Oh, it’s uh,” Dean scrambled, a knot forming in his stomach. “It’s going. What about you? Still hanging around the losers I left behind up there in Tallahassee?”

“Naw, I ain’t with the company anymore. Moved back home to Louisiana.”

Dean nodded, despite the fact that Benny couldn’t tell he did so over the phone. There was something about the way Benny ended his sentence that suggested he wasn’t done, so Dean waited for more. Sure enough, Benny went straight to the punchline.

“I was scrolling through my newsfeed tonight,” the man told him in a thick Cajun accent. “And well, you know how much us other 49 states love reading a good ‘Florida man’ story.”

“I have been made aware,” Dean replied, the knot in his stomach subsiding to make way for an ominous feeling in his gut. “Did I miss something on the evening news?”

“I’m sending you a link now. For you Floridians, it might not have even made the local news. For the rest of us, however…”

Dean pulled the phone away from his ear, clicking on the link Benny texted him. It took him to a news article titled “Florida Man steals Walmart mobility scooter; carries, kisses date in basket with pride flag attached to seat.”

He rubbed his eyes and let out a long sigh before bringing the phone back to his ear. “Oh God.”

Benny’s deep-belly laughter was loud but light-hearted, distracting Dean from the fact that his name was in the news and this was going to be his legacy. Once he was long dead,  _ this  _ was what he would be famous for. Another nail in the Florida Man coffin of crazy.

“Aw come now, it ain’t all that bad,” Benny comforted him, voice still laced with mirth. “You weren’t arrested or nothin’. It was all just a bit of fun, right?”

“ _ That _ made national news?” Dean asked, looking at the article again, just to make sure he wasn’t hallucinating. Yep, that was the headline that described his day. And yep, that was his name. Nope, he wasn’t imagining things. Fan-freaking-tastic.

“I s’pose it don’t take much to amuse us non-Floridians,” Benny admitted. 

“Yeah, yeah. You’re welcome for the free entertainment.”

Benny chuckled. “Alright my friend, I better get some shut eye. I got a full day of laying pipes ahead tomorrow. You rest up, too. All that fame can be exhausting!”

Dean rolled his eyes. “Yeah, I’m definitely going to sleep like a baby after reading that.”

“Don’t let the bed bugs bite, Florida Man,” Benny laughed before hanging up.

The phone hit the couch unceremoniously. Dean looked down at the remote and grunted. There was no way he was going to be able to sleep after learning that he was the laughing stock of the nation — the Sunshine State’s flavor of the week. How was he supposed to feel about that? Although it was uncomfortable to be the butt of a joke, he felt an unexpected sliver of pride in it.

Just a sliver, though. The rest was definitely embarrassment. He flipped to the news channel to see if his local station had covered it. If not, it would be his and Benny’s secret. If so, he would hope no one else who knew him was watching… but he would also record it and keep it to show his grandkids one day. Either way, that news article would be the source of his insomnia that night.


	22. The One Where Cas Gets Rained In

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Continuing to heal from his injuries, Dean makes his first trip to the grocery store since the accident.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen to [Depending On You](https://youtu.be/aiJfwXOwvUw)

It was the first hurricane of the season to reach the coast before dwindling into a tropical storm. It was also the first time Dean had been grocery shopping since his accident; up until this week, he had utilized a grocery delivery service. Staying home instead of braving the crowds and riding a bike home with ten bags hanging from his handlebars had been awesome, but he was starting to miss the independence. 

There was something satisfying about pushing a cart around and choosing the second ketchup bottle back, as if the first one was somehow tainted. He didn’t miss the long lines before a storm hit, and his healing ankle certainly didn’t miss the hard tile floors. His arm in a soft cast and sling earned a smidge of sympathy from the hurried shoppers in the event that he needed to squeeze by to grab a bag of tater tots from the freezer.

Dean swung by the beer wall on his way towards the self-checkout, unprepared for the sick feeling rising in his throat when he reached for a six-pack. He thought about the last time he had reached for a beer bottle and what he found at the bottom of it: a loss of inhibition that led to his broken arm, along with every other injury he was healing from.

More broadly speaking, it landed him in an even bigger predicament: sick days, PTO, and vacation time rapidly running out. If he hadn’t drunk himself stupid he wouldn’t have jumped out that window, or been a dick and rummaged through his roommate’s stuff, for that matter. Reliving it all there in front of the beer wall made him feel dirty. 

He stepped away empty-handed, pushing the cart towards the self-checkout. Whether it be exercise, fishing, or goddamn crochet, he needed to find a better outlet. That night of the accident, the reality of what he felt for Cas hit him so hard that he couldn’t deal, but boo-frickin-hoo. He  _ had  _ to find a way to deal. 

One day he might be able to face his feelings for Cas  _ and  _ have a night in without getting so shitfaced he’d hurt himself. If his current state was any indicator, he hadn’t reached that point yet. Someday, though. If looking out for his own health wasn’t enough of an incentive, he had others to be better for. 

Cas deserved better. The ordeal had scared Sam half to death; he deserved better. Bee was the one who had to live with his black-outs and throw up and bitchy attitude. The fact that she was still putting up with his crap didn’t even make sense. But Dean decided as he left the store without alcohol that he would get better. Because she and everyone else who meant shit to him deserved better.

Dean slipped two black trash bags out of the box he just bought, pausing just outside of the store as the hurricane began to roll in. The thick clouds had darkened the sky in the amount of time it took to grocery shop, plus the wind was picking up enough to make the trees begin to sway in that manner specific to hurricanes. The rain had yet to begin falling, but that was what the trash bags were for.

He ripped a hole at the end of one and poked his head through, draping it over himself to keep his cast dry. After filling the other with his bagged groceries and tying it to one of his handlebars, he set off for home. Sometimes primitive solutions were the most effective.

If his calculations were correct, he’d have just enough time to jump in the shower and pop some pizza rolls in the oven before Cas came by. Whether or not Cas would want to eat, Dean couldn’t be sure, but it was polite to at least offer. Dean liked to eat after work so he figured maybe Cas would appreciate the gesture.

It was going to be a late night for them, as Cas wasn’t off until 9pm. Dean had already asked him to spend the night, and now that the hurricane had picked up speed instead of slowing down, Cas might be stuck there anyway.

Their plan: searching for potential jobs for Dean on their respective laptops. Cas still didn’t know the full extent of Dean’s plight, but immediately agreed to help him look. Dean hoped he would never have to tell Cas, as he didn’t want to burden anyone else with such worry. There was still a teeny tiny chance that he  _ wouldn’t  _ get fired, after all.

Plus, Dean wasn’t passing up any opportunity to have that man snuggled up next to him.

The buzz of his phone alerted him as he put the last of his groceries away. The message was from Cas, letting him know that he was on his way several minutes early due to the storm setting in. Dean sent a quick acknowledgment in reply and quickly switched the oven to “on” to let it preheat as he showered.

By the time the high-falutin’ gourmet meal of pizza rolls was in the oven, Dean was clean, comfy, and answering the knock at his door. Cas held a laptop bag and umbrella, but was still wet on one side from the wind blowing the rain sideways. He was fresh out of work with a pair of dark-washed jeans and a dark red collared shirt, eyeing Dean’s lips as soon as the door opened.

“What weird holiday are you celebrating today?” Dean asked, eyes dipping down the length of Cas’ body. Some of his outfits were less obvious than others, and this was one of those times. Regardless, Dean liked to ask, just so he could get away with checking Cas out super obviously.

Instead of immediately answering, Cas stepped right into Dean’s space and pressed their lips together. Dean had absolutely no objections to this, cupping around Cas’ head to run his fingers through his hair and pull him closer. The kiss ended much too soon, at the sound of tall strides skipping stairs and coming to an abrupt halt.

Dean didn’t even have to look to know who it was. He grumbled as he opened his eyes and looked behind Cas to see — as expected — his dear little brother.

“Sorry to interrupt,” Sam apologized, soaked from head to toe and carrying an overnight bag. “Hey, Cas.”

Gracious as always, Cas gave a congenial nod. “Hello, Sam.”

“Going somewhere with that? Or are you camping out in the breezeway?” Dean asked with one brow up while eyeing the overnight bag.

“Oh,” Sam huffed with a self-conscious smirk. “Eileen asked for help with her, um… her um…”

Dean did not grace Sam with a quick getaway, as he was all too interested in what sort of excuse his little brother could dish out on a whim. He really should be ready to reel off a fast one, especially in the apartment building he knew Eileen and his brother both occupied. Dean thought he had taught his baby brother better than this. It was honestly embarrassing.

“Her radio,” Sam finally said, eyes lighting up at the brilliant response he came up with.

Dean stared blankly at him, barely able to comprehend how someone so borderline genius could be such a dumbass. “That’s the story you’re going with? Her radio?”

Sam nodded.

Dean blinked. “Eileen — your deaf girlfriend — uses a radio?”

A look of realization and subsequent ruin splayed across Sam’s face. His shoulders sagged in defeat as he began looking everywhere but at Dean. After clearing his throat, he squared up once more and furrowed a resolute brow. “She invited me over, alright?”

“Overnight?” Dean prodded.

Sam glanced down at the bag draped over Cas’ shoulder. “You throwing the first stone, or…?”

Dean finally gave into the smile that had been tugging at his mouth since Sam caught him eyeing his overnight bag. “Relax, Sammy. I don’t exactly have room to judge. When shack-up duty calls, you answer —”

His sentence was clipped a hair short by the wide-eyed look on Castiel’s face. Although his tight lips muted much of his expression, his eyes glared right into Dean, like Cas had just found the pirated hentai video under the bed Dean had been meaning to throw away since April. Dean gulped at the blank stare, a cold sweat forming on his temple as the role of rapid-fire explanation quickly shifted to him.

“I didn’t mean — That’s not — I’m not saying we’re necessarily going to —”

“Don’t apologize, Dean,” Castiel stopped him, impeccably serene, so much so that it was unnerving. “It’s good to know a man’s intentions.”

“Oh geez,” Sam muttered, then attempted at a smooth transition with a short cough. “So, how was Hollywood Studios?”

Dean replied “pretty effing terrible” at the same exact moment Cas said “overall unpleasant.” 

“Wow, okay,” Sam acknowledged, at last finding his way out. He began backing away, towards Eileen’s unit. “You guys will have to tell me all about it. Some other time.”

“Some other time,” Cas echoed with an understanding nod.

Dean curled his fingers around Cas’ waist, encouraging him inside. “Yep, great, okay… See ya around, Sam.” Cas took the non-verbal hint and stepped inside and with a huge sigh of relief, Dean shut the door behind them. Safe at last… from his brother, anyway. Now he had to convince Cas that he didn’t invite him over expecting sex. Not that he would mind it…

“International Kissing Day,” Cas said, pulling Dean’s attention back to the present. When Dean responded with a perplexed look, Cas clarified. “That’s ‘the weird holiday’ I’m celebrating today.”

“Ah,” Dean lightly gasped. “So the red shirt is like, the color of lips.”

“I saw a shirt somewhere with kissy lips printed all over, but I thought it looked better suited for Valentine’s Day,” Cas rambled. “It also might insinuate I wanted a woman’s kissy lips all over me, which would be highly misleading.”

“Say kissy lips one more time,” Dean asked, smiling.

Cas peered at him, then inhaled through his nose. “Is something burning?”

Dean jumped into high gear, careening around to the kitchen and yanking a cabinet open for oven mitts. “Crap,” he hissed under his breath, throwing the oven open to find his pizza rolls scorched. He set the pan on the stovetop, swearing to himself and fanning the smoke billowing from the tiny burnt pillows.

So much for offering Cas food. “Looks like I’m the only snack left in this place,” Dean mumbled as he scraped the pizza rolls into the trash can. As soon as the words left his mouth, the smoke alarm went off.

“Here, let me,” Cas offered, opening the sliding glass door to the patio. He gave Dean a sly smile while fanning the alarm unit with a couch pillow. “It’s only fair, after all, since it coincidentally began going off once I walked in.”

Dean winked and gave him approving finger guns. “That’s the spirit.”

Within the minute, the screeching alarm had subsided and Cas was placing his laptop on Dean’s bed, as well as a pair of jersey material shorts he had discreetly folded inside his bag. They plugged in every piece of technology they had — laptops, phones, Dean’s tablet — in preparation for the inevitable power outage, should the hurricane turn out to be as severe as the forecasters were predicting.

In the event of an outage, Dean had prepared himself in the form of an ungodly amount of candles from Bath & Body Works. Everyone else could have their dated oil lamps and boring hand-cranked floodlights. Two birds, one stone: he could have light and make his apartment smell amazing. 

Actually, three stones; candles were romantic as fuck. Even without the power outage, he was fully planning on lighting one after their job search turned sleepy and the lights went out. Castiel must look so beautiful in the flickering light offered by the tiniest of yellow flames, and Dean couldn’t wait to see for himself.

“I’ve got a feeling I should take advantage of electricity while we’ve got it,” Dean said. “Make yourself comfy. I’m nuking some popcorn.”

Cas unbuttoned his shirt and shrugged it off, revealing the expansive tattoo Dean would never tire of seeing. “Does the leasing office turn on backup generators?”

“Sure, once enough people start whining.” Dean was reluctant to tear his eyes away from Cas’ bare back, but if he was feeling snacky, Cas probably was too. “Be right back.”

“Hurry,” Cas prompted, a teasing flare in his voice. “I might get started without you.”

Dean shook off the unavoidable naughty thoughts Cas’ ambiguous statement spurred, muttering swear words under his breath. Once in the kitchen, he fumbled with the microwave popcorn packaging before throwing the bag in upside down, only realizing his error halfway through the cooking time.

“Son of a bitch,” Dean grumbled as he flipped the bag right side-up and pressed Start. A crackle of thunder boomed outside. Rain pounded the roof. As a hurricane connoisseur, Dean could usually discern which storms would live up to their hype and which ones would fizzle out before the eye even reached land. This one might only be a category three, but it sounded promising so far.

The microwave gave a long beep to signal the end of cooking time, and Dean shook the bag before pouring the popcorn into a large plastic bowl. There were a few uncooked kernels, but less than Dean expected. As he began walking out of the kitchen, he gave a small startled jolt at the sight of Bee sitting on the living room floor, surrounded by the two dozen candles Dean had bought.

The two large paper Bath & Body Works bags sat to her side. One by one, she gently removed each candle, removing the lid to take a light whiff. After Wild Honeysuckle, she gave a small nod, then replaced the lid and set it on the floor. After Mahogany Teakwood, her face scrunched up and she silently but unwaveringly shook her head. The ritual continued with every candle in the bag with no regard to who her audience may be, if any.

Sure, he might have found her sniffing his candles, but even if he hadn’t, she’d still be there, sorting through them and silently judging him based on his taste in home fragrance. It was an understated power move, such as was typical of her. A few months ago he might have been weirded out, but nowadays he just rolled with her quirks and manifestations of being queen of their castle.

“Pretty sure I’m gonna need one of those,” Dean said, nodding to the waxy spread forming a semi-circle around Bee and the two paper bags.

Unfazed by the intrusion into her formal welcoming of the fragrances, Bee handed him a candle that had been sitting beside her foot. “Here, this one smells like sweaty bodies at the beach.”

“It does not,” Dean vindicated, cracking the lid open to sniff. “It smells like sunblock.” He handed it back to her. “And it’s not very romantic. Try again.”

Glancing around the spread, Bee read the label on another before handing it to him. “This one contains seductive notes of vanilla and rose, guaranteed to get you dicked down, or your money back.”

Dean turned the candle upside down to read the fragrance description. “Where does it say that?”

Bee snorted a laugh. “You’re welcome. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have four more candles to evaluate.”

“What if he doesn’t wanna dick me down?”

Another candle was placed in his already full hands. “Then burn this one. It has lavender, which will just put you to sleep.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Dean said stiffly with two candles tucked under his chin and a bowl of popcorn cradled in his casted arm. Thankfully, his bedroom door wasn’t closed, so he slipped right in to find Cas in his jersey shorts, sitting cross-legged with his laptop open on the bed.

Dean set the popcorn between them and opened his own laptop, at a loss as to where to even begin looking for a job when the deadline for finding one was so quickly approaching. Cas was oblivious to just how urgently Dean needed to find one, but he hoped he would never have to tell. Maybe he’d put in the winning application tonight.

“Are you open to something customer-facing?” Cas asked. Reaching into his laptop bag one last time, he pulled out a pair of glasses.

“I’m not against it,” Dean said with a mouthful of popcorn, oblivious to Cas’ eyewear up to this point. One of his tabs was already open to a job search site, so he aimlessly tapped the keyboard before glancing over to Cas’ side of the bed to make sure they weren’t on the same website. That was when he saw it.

Cas in glasses.

Nearly choking on the popcorn, Dean blinked in rapid succession at the sight, because there was no way he wasn’t hallucinating. Come to think of it, it was wild that he hadn’t seen Cas in glasses before now. The guy was bound to read occasionally, given his vocation. Dean felt kind of cheated actually; what cruel trick of fate had kept him from seeing this before now?

Unaware of Dean’s staring, Cas typed something into the search bar and pressed enter, eyes fixed on the screen — because of course, the asshole was a typist, too. The computer screen’s blue light shone on his face, contrasting against the shadows of the room and the lamp that dimly lit Dean’s side of the room in a yellowish hue. 

Cas’ hair stuck out in a few places, his long day at work too much for whatever styling products attempted to keep the strands in check. The black frames draped over his nose and a faint glare shone on the lenses. His posture was generally commendable, although he occasionally hunched forward to delete a wrongly spelled word.

Dean could imagine Cas sitting back in a chair with his nose in a book, all prim and proper in his cuffed jeans and rolled up sleeves. Although it was fun to picture, Dean was having far more fun with Cas’ current state of dress. No shirt, soft shorts that showed every curve of his lap, and that back tattoo Dean loved.

It was all  _ a lot, just a freakin’ lot,  _ and Dean sucked in a shaky inhale.

“Everything alright?” Cas asked, voice genuinely concerned, and then turned to face Dean.

_ Holy shit,  _ went Dean’s last coherent thought before Castiel’s cerulean blue eyes looking through those black-framed glasses made his brain short-circuit. His downstairs brain, however, was alive and well. Even with his upstairs brain malfunctioning, he could feel heat pooling in his core as his sweatpants offered little resistance to his oncoming erection.

Glasses were  _ not  _ on Dean’s list of things he expected to make his loins come alive. But he and Cas had gotten frisky multiple times since Disney and eyewear definitely wasn’t the most surprising of turn-ons Dean had encountered yet. For the record, the title belonged to the time Cas said he wished he could go back in time and do a proximity search so he could’ve found Dean sooner.

“Uh,” Dean managed to get out after staring too long. “Yep. Fine.” He swallowed thickly. Damn, concentrating on jobs when Cas looked  _ like that  _ was going to be a test of his resolve.

Cas reached into the bowl. “I found a few customer service representative positions available.”

_ Positions?  _ Dean’s dick swelled against the revealing sweatpants.  _ Don’t let him look, don’t let him look, don’t let him… _

“Shall I email them to you?” Cas asked, voice gravel-rough but without the teasing lilt to suggest he knew what he was doing to Dean. 

“Yep,” Dean clipped, perhaps too quickly. What the hell was he thinking? Answering phones and getting yelled at by pissed customers sounded like his own personal hell. Gulping, he rapidly typed on his laptop. “Maybe something a little more hands-on.”

Cas typed something else into his search bar. “Do you enjoy landscaping?”

Dean sat up a bit straighter, his interest genuinely piqued. “That actually doesn’t sound awful.”

“You are quite tactile, I have noticed,” Cas pointed out, a smirk evident in his voice. 

A flash of heat rose into Dean’s cheeks. His dick twitched in his soft, yielding pants. He chomped on more popcorn to distract himself. “Y-yeah.”

How Cas could just sit there and not know the extent of how attractive he was, Dean did not know. It wasn’t just the grit in Castiel’s voice or the sparkle in his eyes. This went beyond physical desire. Cas was taking time he could be spending unwinding from work to care for Dean at a level far above anything former lovers had bothered with. Being cared for in this way was far from sexual, yet it made his attraction to Cas even more intense.

But for the record, shirtless, muscular Cas in glasses was pretty damn hot, too.

“What does Charlie do?” he found himself asking while mentally listing out the careers of everyone he knew.

“Much less than she is capable of,” Cas replied, pausing from his keyboard. “She uses her hacking powers for good, helping people wipe their computers and protect their private information. Although there was that one time she redirected our neighbors’ wifi and then locked it around our unit.” He glanced to the side to see Dean’s raised brow. “She said it was their own fault and they should’ve secured their connection.”

“Hm,” Dean hummed shortly before resuming his applications. Castiel’s household consisted of his librarian self and a computer hacker one malware away from being a supervillain. In Dean’s lived a plumber, soon to be unemployed, and a mechanic. Sam was in flight school and Eileen did hotel housekeeping. They were like some sort of grown-up Breakfast Club, but with at least two criminals and the principle was just life screwing with all of them with the end of detention nowhere in sight.

The roar of thunder crashed right above their heads and the lights flickered. Dean pulled a lighter out from his nightstand and set it beside his two stacked candles. Neither of them had reached for popcorn in a while, so he set the bowl on the floor. Rain beat against the building; the full force of the hurricane was upon them. It wouldn’t be long until a tree fell on a power line and their apartment went dark.

He knew the drill just as well as any coastal resident. His bike was inside, non-perishable snacks were stocked in the pantry, and his phone was fully charged. As a bonus, Cas was rained in _ — oh no, how unfortunate —  _ and looking good enough to eat and throwing in the occasional flirtatious comment. 

That asshole knew exactly what he was doing. Dean grumbled as his dick swelled under the revealing fabric. He shifted around, crossing his legs and hunching over his laptop in an attempt to hide the situation in his pants. _ Focus,  _ he told himself.  _ The Venn diagram of job hunting and times it’s appropriate to be a horn dog are two separate circles that do not meet at any point. _

As if it couldn’t get any worse, Cas slid a warm hand over Dean’s thigh. He stopped a helpless whimper before it could escape his lips. 

“What about a career in public safety?” Cas suggested, his tone irritatingly calm in contrast to the heat boiling in Dean’s veins.

“Uh, um,” Dean sputtered. “I never really — I mean I guess I could —”

“You’d make an excellent firefighter.”

Dean puffed up a bit at the thought of hefting a Cas In Distress over his shoulder and rushing him out of a burning building. “That sounds pretty cool.”

Cas removed his hand to begin typing again. Dean almost whined again, this time out of frustration at the loss of contact. “I’ll email you the link to the agency’s website.”

Switching to his email tab, Dean clicked on the first referral Cas had sent him. The sooner he began filling out his employment history over and over, the sooner he could get his applications out into the world. One last thunder boom rang out before the room went dark, with the exception of their laptops, and Dean took a beat to light both candles before returning to the job hunt.

Without electricity, the only sound cutting through the howl of the storm was the occasional clatter of fingers on keyboards. For several minutes neither of them said anything, each intent on doing their part of the agreed activity. After a while Dean fell into the groove of filling out application after application, his previous employers’ phone numbers and addresses etching themselves into his memory.

They had gotten a lot done and Dean felt like his chances of getting noticed were pretty darn good. He had just clicked “submit” to another one when Cas sighed and paused from typing. Dean looked over at him curiously in the dim blue light.

“My battery is about to die,” Cas said, not even a bit forlornly. It sounded more matter-of-fact than anything else.

Dean’s brows scrunched. “It should’a lasted longer than that.” He glanced down at the battery indicator on Cas’ computer. Sure enough, it was running low. “The screen brightness must be draining it.”

Cas smiled, fingers flexing across the keys passively. “No,” he purred in that delicious way that made Dean’s core resonate. “I never plugged it in.”

The breath Dean was taking halted in his throat. He met Cas’ eyes, so reflective behind those glasses, and swallowed. His dick stood to full attention under his sweats. That sneaky bastard.

Without breaking eye contact, Cas lowered his laptop lid and slid it to the side. A large chunk of their light source now cut, Dean lowered his gaze just quickly enough to glance at Cas’ lap. To the delight of every nerve in his body, Cas’ jersey shorts were tented with his own boner. 

Dean grinned, closing his laptop and setting it on the floor. He rolled back onto his back, immediately overtaken by Cas, who settled right on top of him and began kissing him long and deep. By the light of his two oppositely-scented candles, he canted his hips upwards, humming into Cas’ mouth as their hot erections pressed together.

Wind and rain battered the roof, the only sounds accompanying their short, breathy sighs of pleasure. The room was already warm without air conditioning, and it would get warmer with the candles burning and every rub of friction between their bodies, but Dean couldn’t find it within himself to care. There wasn’t a single person on earth he’d rather be stranded by a hurricane with.


	23. Here be smut! Turn away, all ye innocent eyes! Or don’t, if you’re into that kind of thing. (clears throat *bottom Cas*)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean might still be recovering from his injuries, but he'd be damned to let an opportunity to honor The Deal pass him by.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ope, I didn't choose a song for this one. Meh, just turn on something sexy. Whatever. You know the drill.

“You remember our deal, right?” Dean asked breathlessly, barely able to pull away from Cas’ face long enough to get the words out.

Cas kissed him again, humming in thought before responding. “Ah yes,  _ that  _ deal.”

When he wanted to be, Cas was a cheeky little fucker, usually kissing Dean goodbye outside the doorway, politely turning down each offer to take the action inside. They had an ongoing deal: whoever hosts, tops. Dean didn’t regret a single visit into Cas’ apartment, but he did overestimate his own ability to be just as tempting when trying to be the persuasive one.

The score was Cas: 4, Dean: 0.

Tonight was different, of course. In times past, their separations at Dean’s door were after a date and always included making out, which sadly had to end once Dean offered a variant of “come inside” and Cas simply shook his head before one last passionate kiss. It never stopped Dean from dreaming of the night it  _ would  _ happen, and those were some pretty damn awesome dreams.

In sharp contrast, tonight’s visit began with a kiss instead of ending with one. It was for business, not pleasure. At least, that  _ was  _ the cover story — until Cas let it slip that he let his laptop run out of battery on purpose.

  
“Well?” Dean prodded as Cas ducked down to nip at his neck, his glasses dangerously close to slipping off. “Are you still okay with it?”

He felt Cas’ lips turn up against his skin. “Absolutely,” the reply reverberated against his throat.

Dean’s eyes rolled back as Cas sucked on  _ that spot he liked  _ before dipping lower. “Oh, fuck yeah.”

Grinding their hips together, Cas lifted his head and began to remove his glasses.

“Wait,” Dean implored. “Keep ‘em on? Please.”

Cas pushed the bridge of his glasses, moving them back into place. 

He looked Dean square in the eye with relaxed facial muscles and eyes half-lidded. He was the perfect picture of calm and collected, despite the filthy way he made Dean throb in his pants. “Mark my words, Dean Winchester. You might be the one doing the penetrating, but by no means are you the one in charge.”

_ Wow, okay,  _ he thought.  _ That’s exceptionally hot. _

“Are we clear?” Cas rumbled against his ear.

Previously convinced he couldn’t be any more turned on, Dean whimpered as his dick swelled between them to the point of aching. “Y-yes,” he breathed, already clawing at Cas’ back.

Cas abruptly sat upright, pulling himself out of Dean’s grip. “Get up,” he ordered. Once Dean pushed himself up, already flustered and dizzy with desire, the tiniest of smirks quirked up Cas’ cheek. “I suggest you prepare me for that folio of yours.”

“O-okay —”

“While I test the amount of library knowledge you have absorbed over the past five months.”

Dean’s eyes widened. Never in his life had he looked forward to a pop quiz this much. Oh no, did that make him a nerd? Only Cas could take the mundane and turn it into something Little Dean could get excited about.

Dean swallowed so hard it was audible. He had his work cut out for him. “Lube’s in the nightstand,” he said, waiting for Cas to scootch off his lap to retrieve it.

The only movement Cas made was his eyebrow shooting up. “Hop to it, then.”

Dean couldn’t scramble away quickly enough. Floundering around in a heap of waving arms and tangled sheets, he finally managed to get the bottle into the center of the bed. He cursed under his breath, hands shaking as he snapped open the cap and eased Cas onto his back.

“Mouth first,” Castiel ordered. His lip turned up in amusement, though Dean couldn’t tell from where he sat. “You’re massive and I need all the help I can get.”

Grumbling something about not asking to be hung like a god, Dean got on his stomach and crawled between Cas’ legs. He couldn’t remember the last time he had eaten ass, but the recipient hadn’t been nearly this bossy about it. He would’ve indulged his inner brat and griped about it a little more if Cas hadn’t grabbed his hair and pushed his head down.

Dean got right to it, licking across the tight pucker with all the enthusiasm as anyone would with the opportunity he had. This was Castiel, in his bed and explicitly telling him he wanted Dean’s dick inside him. What a time to be alive.

“Mm,” Cas hummed, “if only there was a way to send multiple search queries to several search engines, then list them in order of relevance.”

Damn, and he was just about to delve past the rim, too. “Metasearch engine,” Dean said, lifting his head. “I even know your favorite one.”

Cas pushed Dean’s head back down, a silent command to get back to work. Dean acceded, ducking down with the intent of going deeper. It helped that Cas was relaxed and seemed to be enjoying himself, if his tiny pleased noises and the way he stroked Dean’s hair was any clue.

“My favorite,” Cas breathily echoed. One of Dean’s well-placed licks earned a deep groan. “Let’s talk about  _ your  _ favorite thing to do. And don’t act coy and say ‘book sales’. I mean the  _ other  _ thing.”

Dean froze between Cas’ legs like a deer in headlights.  _ How did he —? _

“The thing you haven’t admitted to anyone.”

“Uh,” he chuckled, “Dunno what you’re talkin’ about.”

The words had barely left Dean’s lips before Cas sat up and hefted Dean by the shoulders, pushing and manhandling until he fell with an  _ oof  _ onto his back. The mattress bounced under the force, softening the sudden flip. Before he could catch his breath Cas was climbing over him, stopping with a thigh on each side of Dean’s head and sinking down onto his face.

“I think you do,” Cas insisted. His voice was calm and collected in contrast to how Dean felt gasping and tonguing into the tight hole, now slick with spit. 

Wrapping his arms around Cas’ legs, Dean tilted his head back against the mattress to get a breath. “I go to other branches for ideas,” he confessed against Cas’ inner thigh. “That bubble machine mosh pit at Anastasia Island? Genius.”

Cas reached around the two candles on Dean’s nightstand, finding his bottle of lube. “Your early contributions have shown how capable you are of originality.” Instead of handing it over, he uncapped it himself and scooted off Dean’s face. “But we’re getting off-track, aren’t we?”

Dean made a small whimpering noise at the sight of two lube-slicked fingers disappearing between Cas’ legs. Those were supposed to be  _ his  _ fingers. Since when was topping a spectator sport? This wasn’t fair. Not with the way Cas’ slightly-parted lips gasped tiny breaths and flickering candlelight danced across his skin. Especially not with those damn glasses he had managed to keep on all this time.

“Library of Congress classification system is used where?”

“Fuck,” Dean breathed as Cas added another finger. Dean’s dick sat erect, curved against his lower stomach and thrumming with anticipation. It could practically sense the wet, tight hole nearby, and was growing more impatient with every wet sound Cas made. “I’m not a fucking newbie, Cas. High schools.”

Cas groaned, brows furrowing with the addition of his pinky. “And?”

Dean rolled his eyes. “Colleges. Shit, Cas. When are you going to let me fu—”

“Shh,” came the hiss from behind a finger over Cas’ mouth. “Let’s see. What other classification systems are there?”

Dean had to believe that the quicker he answered, the sooner Cas would stop teasing. “Public libraries use Dewey, that’s easy. Government libraries use SuDocs.” 

He swallowed hard at the sight of Cas relaxing against his own hand, fingers now moving in and out easily. Dean’s length twitched with the need to be inside that ass, like yesterday. He groaned in frustration because he most certainly was  _ not  _ in charge; Cas had been right about that. All he could do was watch, wait, and hope he didn’t blow his load just by getting an eyeful of Cas fingering himself.

“Dean,” Cas rumbled, which given the context, was one of the hottest things Dean had ever heard. 

He came dangerously close to the point of no return, completely untouched.  _ Holy shit. _

“Sit up against your headboard.”

Dean scrambled into action. In addition to the promise of what was soon to come — haha, to  _ come  _ — the command gave him something to do to distract from the aching in his groin. He laid his back flat against the cushioned board as Cas pulled his hand out from between his legs and crawled over Dean’s lap.

“Cas,” he whispered against Cas’ neck. Every understated touch felt like electricity. The pads of Dean’s fingers wandered Cas’ arms and back, sending currents through his bones. Just those feather-light touches made Dean’s breath hitch, taking him back to the first time their fingers brushed.

He couldn’t help but taste the skin joining Cas’ neck to his collarbone. Dean felt fingers threading through his hair, a silent approval. The next thing he felt was a hand around his dick and a welcomed wet tightness at the tip.

Those gentle touches became desperate grasps as Cas sank onto him, slowly but surely. It had been a while since anyone had been brave enough to look at Dean’s size and agree to have that put in them; combined with how perfectly tight Cas was, the sensation was overwhelming. Dean grunted and burrowed his nose into Cas’ neck.

“Isso good,” he slurred as Cas lowered himself another inch. “Don’t rush, is’okay Cas. You’re doing amazing.”

“Recto.”

Dean blinked up to Cas, caught between the actual meaning and the suspicious closeness of spelling to  _ another  _ word that was more accurately related to their current position. The word was so distracting, he hardly noticed Cas taking his hand off his dick to slide down the rest of the way.

What he  _ did  _ notice was the delicious glide around his shaft as Cas began to ride him. “Holy —” Closing his eyes to relish the feeling, Dean rested his head back against the board and squeezed Cas a little tighter. “This is embarrassing and kinda cheesy, but I dunno how long I’ll last —”

“Long enough to define ‘recto’ and every other term I have in mind,” Cas stated, falling into a comfortable rhythm.

The cadent squeeze along his shaft immediately began to build the pleasure pooling deep in Dean’s core. “That’s the right-handed page of an open book,” he rattled off hurriedly. “How many other terms have you got?”

“Six,” came the breathy answer.

Cas used Dean’s shoulders for support as he continued to impale himself. Dean’s hands wandered from his waist to his back, and finally to his ass. He still couldn’t believe Cas was bouncing on his dick. This man was too good to be true.

“Verso is the one on the left,” he offered, giving Cas’ corresponding buttcheek a gentle smack.

Cas seemed amused by Dean’s initiative, flashing what appeared to be a pleased smirk in the dim light. “Five.”

A sliver of satisfaction rushed through Dean. It was nothing compared to how release would feel after holding out for as long as Cas decided this game would last. It was almost cruel, but Dean kind of loved it. He had never topped like this. Not calling the shots. At his bottom’s mercy. 

“Flyleaf,” Cas said, picking up the pace by a hair.

Just that little difference made Dean impossibly harder, earning moans out of both of them as he filled Cas up even more. He could feel the blood pumping into his shaft and how it pulsed tight into Cas. Dean squeezed his eyes shut to concentrate on not finishing before defining term number three.

“Dammit,” he whispered to himself.

Cas gritted his teeth, his typically unreadable expression beginning to melt away. “I do not believe that is Webster’s definition.”

“Webster’s isn’t even your go-to dictionary,” Dean retorted. “You’re an Oxford bitch and you know it.”

After an incredulous look, Cas gripped Dean’s hair and tugged, forcing the back of Dean’s head against the board and his eyes locked onto Cas’ face. He couldn’t look down at his dick disappearing into Cas or a single mouthwatering inch of the man’s body. All he could see was wild hair and black-rimmed glasses, while thrust after thrust, the friction in his lap built him higher and higher.

“Either you give me the definition,” Cas panted, his voice on the brink of erring from its usual calmness, “or this stops now and you sleep on your own couch.”

“The jackass blank fucking page right there when you open a goddamn book,” Dean grumbled. “Or at the end.  _ Jesus.” _

Cas hummed in satisfaction and picked up the pace. “Your knowledge retention is impressive.”

“Impressive enough to call off the next four terms?” The pleasure was becoming unbearable, so Dean couldn’t help but try his luck. He was on the brink and the only reason he hadn’t let himself go was for this incredible, infuriating man. 

Obviously, Cas wasn’t giving him an inch. “Is a flyleaf and endpaper the same thing?”

“Ugh, you ass —”

“It is my observation that you’re enjoying my ass.”

Dean’s eye-roll turned to squinting as Cas gave one of his nipples a pinch. “Son of a bitch,” he gritted, momentarily distracted from the pleasure by the nip of pain. “Flyleaf, endpaper. Same thing? Eh, can be.” Each small sentence was punctuated by Cas’ downward thrusts. “Although endpaper —  _ dammit  _ — is more specific. It’s the glued-down douchebag… on the inside of the cover. Cas,  _ Jesus,  _ I can’t —”

“And the part of an endpaper pasted to the inside of the cover is the…?”

“Paste-down!” Holy hell, he really did know all this random shit. Cas must’ve truly rubbed off on him. And to think, this whole time, Dean had told himself and others that he wasn’t the library type. This  _ thing  _ they were doing — whatever the hell it was — begged to differ. It wasn’t the way Dean had planned on finding out something about himself, but like hell, if he was complaining about self-discovery with his dick up Castiel’s ass.

The air between them had grown hot with the combined friction from their bodies, the lack of air conditioning, and candle flames. A thin sheen of sweat glistened on Cas’ skin as he gripped the headboard, the intensity of his downward drops growing to a fever pitch. Dean supported him where he could, his waist, back, ass, but his own hands were slippery and his fine motor functions grew sloppy as orgasm drew nigh.

“The tail edge of a book is opposite of the top edge,” Cas said, the unsteadiness in his voice telling of how close he must’ve been to relenting to the workout his thighs were getting and letting Dean put him on his back. It would’ve been the easy thing to do. But of course, when Cas set his mind to something, that was that. “Where is the foredge?”

“Opposite of the spine,” Dean rasped, eyes clenched shut and narrowly avoiding making an edging joke. He gave Cas’ collarbone another taste, this time latching onto the skin when Cas gave an approving gasp. The taste was purely Cas and he wanted it  _ everywhere  _ in his mouth; he wanted his taste buds to memorize it so the vivid detail would be with him on a lonely night.

“Dean,” Cas breathed against his hair. In just one syllable, he carried the tone of being almost too far-gone to present the last term, and it just about did Dean in.

“Almost there, Cas,” he attempted to encourage, although his own voice shook. His fingers dug into Cas’ back, probably making sharp red marks across the dragon and his hoard. Cas leaned closer for the home stretch so his dick pressed against Dean’s stomach as he dipped down in quick, shallow bobs.

“Printed or written pages… that may or may not have been bound —”

“Text block,” Dean cut in, curling his fingers around Cas’ length and jerking him off furiously.

Cas’ head fell back with a long groan as he pulsed in Dean’s hands, spurting on both of their stomachs and Dean’s fingers. The sight, sound, and even the smell of candles and cum gave Dean the signal that  _ finally  _ it was time, and he came so hard he saw white spots. Clenching down on Cas’ thighs with sticky hands, he held him down as he pumped his release deep inside.

Sucking in a breath as Dean filled him up, Cas slumped forward, head in the crook of Dean’s neck and arms resting boneless on his shoulders. Dean breathed deeply as he ran his fingers over Cas’ back, as if going back over it gently would negate the red marks. He carded his fingers through Cas’ hair before remembering how sticky they probably still were, but before he could comment on it the generator kicked in, turning the bedside lamp back on and prompting Cas to lean back far enough for them to look at each other.

Cas was an absolute wreck.

His dark hair stuck this way and that, some parts sticky and some already dried. Those perfect lips were dry from heavy breathing. His cheeks were flushed and his thighs trembled from the workout he had just put himself through. There was a bright red bruise on his collarbone from where Dean had sucked. And through it all, he had somehow managed to keep the glasses on.

Dean tenderly removed them from Cas’ face. He opened his mouth to say something, but he had no idea what to say. This man had actually rendered him speechless. No praise seemed adequate; no post-coital commentary could summarize how it felt to have Cas dictate his own fuckening from beginning to end.

Cas could bring his overnight bag here any damn night.

The AC was already beginning to work. In a few minutes, it would make the sweat covering their bodies cold. Good for seeing what Cas looked like in goosebumps and erect nipples; not so good in the cuddling for warmth department.

“Shower?” Dean suggested.

Through half-lidded eyes and a pleasantly blissed-out smile that would eventually return to its usual neutral composure, Cas nodded. 

Wrapping his arms around Cas’ thighs, Dean slowly laid him down so he wouldn’t have to lift himself any more than he already had. He pulled out, both of them letting out oversensitive huffs. Before getting back up he kissed Cas on the corners of his mouth, enjoying the way they turned up in the afterglow. Cas didn’t smile like this often.

“I need a minute,” Cas cautioned, wincing as he turned onto his side.

Dean chuckled, sexed-out himself and probably looking goofy as hell. If he had to guess, Cas’ legs were still burning and his asshole felt like his intestines were about to fall out. Taking dick could be rough, Dean could confirm.

He curled up beside Cas, willing to keep him company for as long as he needed before being able to walk to the bathroom. It was definitely going to be a bath for this guy. He had used his legs enough for one day.


	24. The One With Great Tits

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time is not on Dean's side. His limbs are still healing and his last allowable sick day is drawing nigh. He needs to come up with a plan, fast.

Everyone knew it was way too hot to be at the zoo. No amount of sunblock, hats, and sunglasses could fully protect them from the worst of a Florida summer. There was something about the sun in America’s subtropics that the rest of the country didn’t have; it burned brighter, more unforgiving.

Charlie’s pale skin did not take kindly to its rays. She wore a wide-brimmed hat to the zoo and retreated into the shade at every chance she got. That included standing in Dean’s shadow, which cracked him up more than once.

In contrast, Castiel tanned with every passing hour. It was like he was made to lay out in the sun, which reminded Dean to suggest the beach sometime. Seeing that man in trunks with sand between his toes was a need, goddammit, not a want at this point. But not when the temperature was in triple digits.

The only reason he was able to convince the gang to head to the zoo was his latest doctor’s appointment. That was the day his cast  _ finally  _ came off and for the first time in weeks, he took a good look at his arm. He could have the day the doctor changed him out of a hard cast and put him in a soft one, but he didn’t want to look. It was all too fresh. The accident. How much he could kick himself for getting hurt. His first scheduled day back at work that he inevitably wouldn’t make it to.

He bit his lip and looked over at his arm once the doctor unwrapped it. It was pale and thin, but that wasn’t what made him swallow a lump in his throat. Words about losing blood came rushing back to him as he took a long look at the scar where bone had protruded out of his skin. His injuries must’ve been pretty serious after all.

All Dean had to do was mention to Cas in passing how many birds he could fit on him now that he had both arms. On the day of his doctor’s appointment, he caught Cas searching for zoos nearby with aviaries on one of the library computers. Sue him, the zoo was cool as fuck, and he didn’t regret being the reason Cas dragged everyone there.

It was his arm’s emancipation party, and everyone  _ would  _ have a fan-freaking-tastic time.

“I’ve got a turquoise one,” Charlie cooed as the parakeet jumped onto her feed stick. The whole gang was sealed in the aviary with a guide whose job was simply to let them in and out and leave them to their devices in between. So far the guy had welcomed them with a smile and gotten out of their way. 

The group’s spirits had lifted since walking into the heavily shaded area. It was at least ten degrees cooler in the aviary, which was still hot, but not blistering like they had endured before taking up their feed sticks and walking through the back-to-back entry doors.

“That white one over there wants a bite, I know it,” Dean said, peering across some branches at a shy one hiding behind some branches. “Hey, you —  _ yeah you _ — You gonna stare at this millet all day? Or are you gonna grow some balls and take a chomp like the rest of these inbreds?”

He was covered in parakeets on both arms, where he had strategically set several feed sticks to lure them onto him. At the moment he was wearing five birds. His highest count was eight, with number nine staring directly at him.

“See? Nothing to be afraid of,” Dean kept prodding. The bird gave in at last, swooping past Sam, Eileen, and Bee to land on Dean’s shoulder and nibble on the feed. “That’s it. What did I tell you, you scaredy son of a bitch?”

Cas took a picture of Dean covered in parakeets, smiling amusedly at the vague resemblance Dean held to a scarecrow. “I’m sure your new friend would appreciate such gentle reassurance if he could understand human speech.”

“They understand just fine,” Dean insisted, nose turning up smugly. “I’m a regular Doctor Dolittle. Watch this.” He slowly turned his head, so as to not scare any of the parakeets away, and spoke to the one on his shoulder. “Go fly on Cas’ head, asshat.”

The bird ruffled his feathers and raised his tail, pooping on Dean’s shoulder.

“Motherfu—”

“Wow, I’ve never related so hard to a bird,” Sam interjected, trying to sound harsh but a smile creeping across his cheeks. 

_ Instant karma,  _ Eileen signed.  _ Talking crap will get you crapped on. _

Sam snorted a laugh. Dean’s eyes bounced between him and Eileen and peered suspiciously. Sam cleared his throat, saying nothing but nodding to Eileen in reply. 

The only word Dean could make out was “crap”, which Eileen signed twice in the sentence. It was one of the first words he had learned, as he had asked Sister Jo to teach it to him during his first ASL class. He also asked about other unsavory words, which she did not indulge him at the time, because he was “being disruptive in class” and “those aren’t beginner conversational words, Dean.” 

Their words held no weight for him, especially with the way his arms ached from holding them out for so long. His newly unbandaged arm hurt the worst, the pain turning into a burning sensation as his weakened muscles struggled to hold up their own weight. But he couldn’t give in. Not with the oneness with nature associated with having nine parakeets feeding on him.

“Hey Bee, c’mere,” Dean said, glancing down his arm at a yellow bird pecking at the feed stick he held in his fingers. “Check this out.”

She came forward, the bird on her stick flying away to find a more stationary place to eat. Once she was close enough, Dean plopped his elbow right on top of her head, immediately alleviating most of the pain.

“Ah,” he sighed, “much better.”

Making peace with her fate as an armrest, Bee lifted her feed stick to one of the parakeets on Dean’s arm. “So, Charlie,” she said, successfully coaxing it onto her own stick. “You and Castiel still go see local bands on weekends?”

“When he’s not otherwise occupied,” Charlie said pointedly, glaring first at her roommate, then at Dean. “Most of them are so-so, but we never know until we give them a chance. Who knows, we might end up seeing the next pre-famous Beatles. Can you imagine paying five bucks to see the greatest band ever?”

Dean raised a brow. “Second greatest band ever.”

Charlie rolled her eyes. “Nobody’s here to listen to you gush about your undying love for Led Zeppelin, Dean.”

“Hey!” he barked, but not at Charlie. At some point during their conversation, Bee had lured every last parakeet from both of Dean’s arms onto one of hers. They chirped and nibbled, each waiting patiently for their turn at her feed stick. 

Dropping both hands at his sides, Dean turned his attention to the next enclosure. It was clearly visible from inside the aviary, complete with signage right up against the asphalt walkway. Some of the enclosure’s plain-colored birds had yellow plumage and others gray, but they all had thick black lines that stretched from their eyes to their necks.

He walked to the edge of the aviary, fingers splayed across the metal grates. A parakeet landed next to him. “We should start a band.”

When he got only silence in response, he faced the rest of his group, who were staring blankly at him in varying degrees of cynicism. Sam was the worst of them all, frowning at him like Dean just dishonored their ancestors. Eileen read lips but he wasn’t facing her when he made the statement, so hers was the only face yet untainted by the horror written across everyone else’s.

Sam reluctantly signed Dean’s proposition to Eileen. She shrugged neutrally, a motion that neither painted her as pro or anti, until she replied to the idea with, “I play bass guitar.”

Simultaneously, Dean’s face lit up while Sam slumped with a begrudging exhale. “Awesome,” Dean said. “Anyone else play an instrument?”

“Does clarinet in high school marching band count?” Charlie piped up.

Of course she would be the token band nerd. “Uh, no,” Dean shot down. “What sort of rock and roll outfit has a freaking clarinet?”

“The Beatles,” she retorted, “in Sgt. Pepper’s. Oh, and Supertramp, Chicago, Aerosmith… Shall I keep going?” She paused for a beat, during which Dean took a breath to speak, but had nothing to come back with. “You know not of what you speak. Do not underestimate the woodwind section!”

The depth of just how unprepared he had been for a conversation about clarinets threw Dean for a temporary loop, but he shook it off and got back to the topic. “Anyone else? Cas, what about you? Piano, guitar?” He wiggled his eyebrows. “Surely those fingers are talented in more ways than one.”

A collective groan emanated from the rest of the group.

“I did some singing in college,” Cas indulged. “But that was a long time ago.”

“So we have two singers,” Dean said, pointing to himself and then Cas and ignoring Sam’s look of horror, “a bassist, a…” His lip curled up in distaste. “...a  _ clarinetist.” _

Charlie stuck her chin out proudly.

“Who else? What about my brick wall climbing mechanic over here?”

A new parakeet flew onto Bee’s feed stick. “Let’s just say I’ve been nicknamed ‘Bonzo’ more than once.”

Dean beamed.  _ Drums, check.  _ “And what about you, Sammy? You gonna man the synthesizers?”

“Sure, let me grab my Furby and Dunkaroos while we’re at it,” Sam sassed. “And what about you? I thought you wanted to be on guitar, which you haven’t touched in years, by the way.”

“I mean, guitar apps are a thing. I could just hold my phone up to the mic and —”

“Dean,  _ no.” _

“And if you aren’t going to play anything, you can be our roadie. Pack and unpack our stuff and dream of fame, like the salty jackass you are.”

Sam huffed, looking around at the group that wore expressions varying between _ let’s do this  _ and  _ feel free to Rapture me anytime, Lord Jesus.  _ “This is a really bad idea.”

“Excuse me,” came a new voice from deep in the aviary brush. Their guide stepped forward, a wide-eyed, lanky thing with too-big boots and a corded outdoorsman hat. “I couldn’t help but hear you need a guitarist, and well… I play.”

Dean blinked at the man, unable to picture him shredding to Guns n Roses but unwilling to pass up the opportunity to have a complete band. From what little interaction he had with the group, he seemed like a nice guy, even if he did look like the runt in a litter of puppies. Dean needed a break big enough to pay rent once his boss fired him; now wasn’t the time to be picky.

“What’s your name?” Dean asked.

“Garth,” the man replied as a parakeet invited itself onto the brim of his hat. It perched there to preen itself while Garth turned his head to speak to the group, oblivious to his passenger. “I can play all sorts: rock, country, blues… even a little bebop if I’m feeling funky.”

Dean couldn’t name a single bebop song if his life depended on it, but the fact that Garth played and was willing to play  _ for them  _ had already convinced Dean to give him a chance. “A’ight fine, you’re in.”

Garth’s eyes widened with glee. Dean half-smiled and turned towards the next enclosure again, a million thoughts running through his head. They needed to buy a few supplies, rehearse, and book a gig. They needed a band name. It was a big to-do, but Dean was as good as unemployed, thus desperate, so the long list of needs seemed small in the big scheme of things.

This was good. This was going to be really good. He repeated it to himself until it sounded reasonable, and ignored the negative voices in his head warning him about all the things that could go wrong.

He narrowed his eyes until he could read the name of the plain-colored birds on their walkway plaque. There were four titles with large lettering, followed by much smaller paragraphs he couldn’t make out from that distance. It took him a double take to decipher because there was no way someone would name a bird that.

Great Tit, Blue Tit, Coal Tit, Long-tailed Tit.

Dean snorted a laugh.

That’d make an epic band name:  _ The Great Tits.  _ It sounded like something out of a Dr. Seuss book. One tit, two tit, red tit, blue tit. So many jokes, so little time.

“Hey!” Dean shouted at the birds in the next enclosure. “Lemme see those tits!”

Zoo Guide Garth would inevitably step in, as Dean was frightening the birds, but dammit, he had to get in at least one bad joke while the opportunity presented itself. He ignored the rest of his group as he clung to the aviary grates and continued to cat-call. He didn’t know Sam was rubbing his face in resignation, nor that Cas had taken a short video of the outburst.

“He can’t sing?” Cas asked after his phone was put away and Garth walked towards Dean. He looked up at Sam for an answer, curious to the implications Dean’s brother had hinted at for the duration of their musical conversation.

It took Garth’s mellow voice a few tries to get Dean’s attention. “He can sing just fine when he’s relaxed,” Sam explained. “Does he seem relaxed to you?”

“No,” Cas replied right away. “He seems stressed.”

Sam watched as Dean charmed his way out of getting kicked out of the zoo. “Exactly. His singing sounds like a dying cat when he’s stressed, which is why this is such a bad idea.”

Cas’ lips pressed into a thin line while he tilted his head at Dean, brows furrowing in thought. “I wish I knew what was the matter.”

“Me too,” Sam agreed, a mirthless huff escaping his lips. “Something is definitely up.”

“I will help him as best as I can, but if he isn’t ready to tell me what’s wrong —”

“I know,” Sam interjected, nodding understandingly. “Thanks, Cas.”

They exchanged tight-lipped smiles, an unspoken communion coming from both knowing how secretive Dean could be at times. Although he usually wore his emotions on his sleeve, his underlying thoughts and motives remained unknown until something drastic made it all come to a head and everyone surrounding got caught in the aftermath of the explosion.

It was Dean’s way of protecting those around him from his drama; Sam and Cas both knew it. It was Dean’s way of keeping people from fretting over him, and although it was a considerate thought, it had the adverse effect when it was practically written across his forehead that something was terribly wrong. 

But not a soul on earth could make Dean talk until he was ready to talk. It was the other side of the enigmatic coin that Cas had grown so fond of. Dean wasn’t a search bar, ready to yield whatever results Cas desired at the drop of a hat. He was an entire subject to be studied, revealing his secrets at his own pace and at the great patience of his learner.

And that was just fine and well with Cas. He was a patient man.

Garth led the group out of the first of two exiting doors, making sure the first door shut before opening the second one. No parakeets escaped the aviary, thanks to the measures the zoo used to contain them. As they left for the next enclosure, Garth said his goodbyes, promising to get in touch with them about rehearsing.


	25. The One Where They’re Handmaidens of Moondoor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With no time to lose and no option to tell Cas what's really going on without risking their relationship, Dean books a gig and hopes for the best.

Garth’s garage became a familiar place over the next few weeks. No one could honestly say they were improving, but he was ever the optimist, always suggesting another go when they had an especially bad run. 

“Let’s take it from the top again,” he suggested, his voice never losing its buoyancy despite the terrible sound they collectively made. “I think we almost had it that time.”

Although the positive vibes came from a good place, Dean cringed. Their first gig was scheduled  _ that night  _ and they had yet to find a certain tightness that made a band groove. At least they had settled on a name — well, _ most of them _ had agreed on it. 

Dean dragged his feet booking them as  _ Handmaidens of Moondoor,  _ but there was something about seeing Charlie so pleased with herself at making the name stick. She had grown on him, although the name never would, and he low-key enjoyed the incorporation of her favorite role-playing group.

The worst part wasn't even the rehearsals, but the ramifications of having bad rehearsals. If they couldn’t play together in private, then being on stage would be a disaster. Bad performances meant no more gigs, and no more gigs meant he wasn’t getting paid. 

With every bad note, he got a little closer to a rent payment he couldn’t make.

Dean led into  _ Hey Jude _ with vocals, an out-of-place calm settling over him as Garth followed with a gentle riff. Logically, Dean should’ve been shaking in his flip flops. There was so much at stake. Tonight could be the night he began to lose everything. And yet, the familiar song soothed him in a way only it could.

As rehearsed, Cas sang the second verse and holy moly could he sing. Dean had been so caught up in this-or-that minor imperfection from the instrumentalists that he hadn’t even paid attention to the pipes on the guy. Dean almost signed over all his rights to vocals — _ almost _ — but it was either singing or scrounging for another instrument, and he wasn’t keen on tapping on a tambourine like a hippie at Woodstock.

The interlude included drums, bass, and yes, Charlie and her clarinet. Honestly, it wasn’t that bad. Cas and Dean dueted the chorus, which admittedly could still use some work. The rest of the song went relatively smoothly, but Dean waited until the end before allowing himself to consider it their best run. 

Garth confirmed it with a smile that bunched up his cheeks. “Good job,” he said after the last note. “Should we press our luck and try  _ Good Ol’ Boys _ once more?”

Morale boosted by the not-so-terrible  _ Hey Jude _ run, Dean scanned his bandmates and after discerning that none of them looked put off by the idea, nodded at Garth. Tonight could go either way, but Dean had to believe they could pull it off. 

Failure was not an option.

* * *

“My reed!” Charlie squealed in the backroom. Every head in the tiny room turned, looking in horror as the resident clarinetist held a splintered piece of wood in front of her face. “That wasn’t supposed to happen.”

“Do you have any more?” Sam asked.

“In the van,” she said with a grimace.

“Hurry!”

Charlie jumped up before Sam could finish those two syllables. After she scampered off to dig another reed out of the van they had rented, one of the venue employees poked his head into the door and gave the group a nod. 

It was time.

One by one they walked on stage. Sam took his place at the soundboard. Nerves on edge, Dean scanned the intimidating crowd. This was it. This had to succeed, or else. It was now or never.

Garth and Bee led them into the first two blaring notes of  _ Good Times Bad Times.  _ Dean nodded his head to the beat, attempting to psych himself into having a good time. Music was fun. This whole shindig was supposed to be  _ fun.  _ He cleared his throat and belted out his first lyric, almost missing the beat.

And oh man, there were good times and bad times alright, but this was definitely a bad one.

Charlie showed up halfway through the song, wincing at the pained expressions across the crowd. Already unimpressed, the onlookers talked amongst themselves, a few of them leaving before the first song ended. Others held their hands over their mouths, politely striving to hide their secondhand embarrassed grins.

Why, oh why didn’t Dean just take the tambourine and let Castiel do all the solos?

There was no feasible way the rest of their songs could have gone worse, and yet they did. At some point during their set, one of Garth’s guitar strings untuned itself and he couldn’t seem to get it back in line. Feedback rang through the speakers, prompting everyone to cover their ears more than they already were. Dean stepped in the one piece of gum on the entire stage.

“Son of a bitch,” he murmured in the middle of Charlie’s solo, a long sticky line of gum strung between the floor and his shoe. Someone in the crowd booed them.

One of Bee’s drumsticks snapped in half during the last song. Dean looked at each of his bandmates as he struggled to keep it together long enough to finish. Cas was singing with him at this point, the only beautiful sound in the midst of absolute chaos, but they were too far gone to be of any consolation to Dean. 

Balancing their sound as best he could, Sam twisted and turned the knobs, maintaining a strained, close-lipped smile that did not fool Dean. Eileen’s gritted teeth and worried brows told all as she kept the rifts in time with the drums. Garth, bless him, was a disaster. Even Cas looked like he was looking forward to the set being over.

They hadn’t even finished the last song before the crowd went wild, and not in a good way. They jeered and motioned aggressively, urging them off and prompting the intervention of a venue employee, who took Dean’s mic before they could escape their loud heckling.

Not a single word was uttered as Sam drove them back in the rusty old van. For those present in a stable career, it was a matter of embarrassment. They had tried something different and it had gone as badly as it possibly could have. But for them, that was where it ended. There were no repercussions, no long-term suffering for one night gone bad.

For Dean, however, it was so much more than that. He sat shoulder-to-shoulder with Cas and surrounded by friends, more alone than he had ever been. Because to Dean, this wasn’t just a lofty attempt at fame and fortune. This was his life. It was a second chance and now it was gone, and he would not be given a third.

A text from his boss sat on his phone, unanswered.  **_See you tomorrow,_ ** it said. Dagon’s warning. Her unspoken threat of what would happen if she did not, in fact, see him tomorrow.

  
Dean hung his head low and rubbed his arm, still frail from weeks in a cast. Sure, he could brush his teeth and carry light grocery bags, but was he ready to return to plumbing? No. But could he do light work and fly under the radar?

Also no.

He pinched the bridge of his nose and cursed under his breath. This was bad. 

This was so  _ very  _ bad.

* * *

A late-night show Dean barely paid attention to was the only thing providing noise to the otherwise silent apartment. Slumped against the couch, he stared blankly at the screen as his mind raced. That gig was his big chance, and he blew it. His arm wasn’t strong enough to withstand the physical toll plumbing dealt, and tomorrow was supposed to be his first day back to work.

This was it. End of the line.

The pitter-patter of Bee’s footsteps came from the hallway, but he remained motionless. He wasn’t ready for this discussion and he never would be. What would become of him? Would he be homeless? Would Cas break up with him? What would happen to Bee? What would all of his friends and family think of him?

_ Failure,  _ he called himself as he sank further into the cushions.  _ Too chicken to admit you love the hot librarian and too stupid to figure out a new job. _

Castiel would hate hearing him talk about himself like that. He would look at Dean sternly with that quirked up eyebrow, then scold him for being self-deprecating. It wouldn’t make Dean repent of his ways, but it would distract him long enough with horniness that he’d forget about it for a few hours.

Dean heard sink water pouring into… something. He tilted his head just enough to look into the kitchen. Bee was holding a watering can under the spigot. Dean recalled that it was watering time for the growroom in her closet.

“Y’alright there, Mr. ‘Dubs?” she asked, turning off the water. “You’ve got that thousand-yard-stare goin’ on.”

Dean blinked as he brought his eyes forward again, grumbling to himself for the way his face could give him away. Whatever was on TV, he only noticed colors and fuzzy shapes. All was unfocused and muted as he chewed on his lip and thought hard about something deflective to reply with, but he couldn’t come up with a single thing.

He was at his wit’s end.

“I’m not ready,” he mumbled.

Bee set her watering can on the living room floor, pulled up her bean bag chair, and sat down. “Say what?”

“Tomorrow’s my first day back to work,” he said, not any clearer, but close enough to be understood. “I’m s’posed to go back tomorrow and I’m not ready. My arm… it’s not… it’s not healed enough and —”

“Whoa now, slow down,” Bee intervened with a hand raised. “You’ve talked to your boss about this?”

Dean nodded.

“You don’t get — I dunno — ‘temporary disability’ or whatever the kids are calling it these days?”

Dean shook his head.

Bee’s brows scrunched as the wheels in her head turned. “Then what’s gonna happen?”

Pressing his lips together, Dean fought a long-awaited lump in his throat. His eyes stung with the threat of tears. Damn, it was bad enough to have it bouncing around in his own head, but someone else saying it out loud? That shit hurt more than he thought possible.

“She’s gonna fire me, that’s what’s going to happen.” He fought to keep his voice from cracking, like some angst-ridden protagonist in a novel he had borrowed from the library. “I’ll call her and let her know, but she’ll still count it as a no-show, and I can only do that so many times before she uh… Well, y’know.”

The silence that followed was painful enough, but the look that grew on Bee’s face was somehow worse. Her expression went from that of confusion to realization, and then to utter sadness. It actually hurt to watch. He had never seen her become so incredibly sad so quickly.

Dean sighed, burying his head in his hands. He couldn’t watch anymore — she had already comprehended that the money would run out — and he physically couldn’t bring himself to offer any consolation. He had none to give, and that made it sting even more.

_ Fucking useless,  _ his own head told him.

He only looked back up at the sound of Bee getting off of her bean bag and picking up her watering can. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Dean rubbed his face and shook his head. “I didn’t want y’all to worry about me.”

Bee still looked sad, but there was something else there he couldn’t figure out. It was like a fire behind her eyes, a barely-contained power like a thousand horses pressing against a gate that was on the brink of giving in. Was she pissed? She looked more determined than pissed. It was actually kind of terrifying.

“I don’t think you understand how much you mean to the people in your life,” she finally said before turning towards the hallway. “Every single one of us in that rusty old van tonight would want to help you.”

“Bee, wait,” he said, scrambling out of the couch’s fluffy hold to follow her down the hall. “Don’t — don’t tell everybody.”

“Don’t freak out, man. I’m not telling everybody.” She flicked the lightswitch on in her room and threw her closet door open. The lights were already shining on the crowded marijuana plants inside. “Since that’s apparently your primary concern.”

“It’s not, okay?”

Bee let out a sharp exhale and began watering her plants. “I would’ve tried to help you.”

Dean leaned against the doorframe. “How?”

“Dunno.”

Rolling his eyes, Dean crossed his arms and swallowed down half a dozen microaggressions that could quickly turn into an argument. In the four months they had shared a space, they had never had a single fight, but he had never seen her like this. The hand holding her watering can wavered a little, like a car shaking at idle. Her energy, usually so smooth and unwavering, emanated into the room, alerting Dean as to just how upset she was.

This was not how their living arrangement was supposed to stop. It would be abrupt, a wreckage that would mean goodbye. Dean couldn’t even begin to describe how  _ not ready _ he was for that. Sure, he liked the nearby fishing spot, and not having upstairs neighbors was nice, but those things weren’t what made it home.  _ She did. _

What could he say? That he was sorry? Lame. Could he ask,  _ Now what are we gonna do?  _ What was this, a melodramatic soap opera with sad violin music? He couldn’t say anything without sounding like the pathetic excuse of a roommate he was, so he kept quiet.

“I’ll handle it,” she said quietly, almost too quiet for him to hear.

Dean shifted on the doorframe. “How?”

“I don’t know,” she said again, pausing from her watering. “But I’ll figure something out.”

Her word was as nondescript as humanly possible, but she seemed calmer now, which made Dean inclined to calm down as well. He let out a stale breath and left her to her devices without a word. He spent the rest of his evening routine in silence, although it was different from the silence on the couch.

At least now he felt a millimeter closer to being at peace. He had tattled on himself to one person, and for whatever reason, that made him feel better. It wasn’t better, of course, as no solution had been reached to his predicament. But at least he wasn’t holding it all in.

At least one other person knew what a massive fuck-up he was.


	26. The One With the Criminals

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castiel's suspicions arise when Dean visits the library with even less manners than usual. What is the meaning of his strange behavior?

Castiel offered a close-mouthed smile to the woman walking into the library, a petite woman with dark hair and piercing eyes. He didn’t know much about her; only that her visits were sporadic and she borrowed newer movies that had to be put on hold. Knowing the drill, she headed directly to the hold shelves.

An all-too-familiar voice grew in volume outside the front doors. It was Dean, with enough nerve to be  _ on the phone _ on his way into the  _ library.  _ Tsk, tsk. Castiel got the impression that Dean was trying to speak low, although the relative silence of the great indoors made his voice seem louder.

“No Sam, I do not want to talk about the gig last night,” Dean grumbled, chin tucked into his chest as he walked to the circulation desk. He rolled his eyes and offered Cas an apologetic look, holding his phone to his ear as Sam doubtlessly endeavored to talk Dean through the aftermath of the failed _ Handmaidens of Moondoor. _

Castiel lightly cleared his throat and laced his fingers across the desk. He really had taught Dean better, so whatever was prompting Dean’s blatant lack of respect for the patrons already present, it was a big deal.

“Chill out,” Dean hissed. “I fish to clear my mind. I caught four this morning, as a matter of fact, and — “ His whole body froze as his eyes caught something (or someone) in the direction of the hold shelves. “ —  _ Holy mother of ball wash  _ I gotta go.”

In the blink of an eye, Dean hit the floor, using the circulation desk as a shield against what he had looked past Cas to see just a split-second before. Cas leaned forward, shock from the sudden disappearance written across his face, but there was no Dean in sight. Instead, the dark-haired woman plopped a DVD onto the desk with a curt smile.

Switching back to a neutrally pleasant expression, Castiel scanned her card and her movie, then printed a receipt. “Have a lovely day,” he said as she left, then went right back to searching for Dean. He craned his neck, looking in every direction while on his tiptoes to lean across the desk.

“Y’know,” that gruff but playful voice said directly behind him, “bent over the desk like that is a good look on you.”

Castiel turned around slowly, eyes boring into Dean’s mischievous ones. As much of a face Dean could put on, there was something else there — something behind the carefree facade that, if Cas looked hard enough, was deeply unsettling. Dean seemed to notice how intensely Cas was studying him and looked at the floor, swallowing.

“Do you know her?” Castiel asked, mentally replaying the last couple of minutes, looking for answers, or at least relevant questions that might lead to them.

“Oh, who? Her?” Dean chuckled, cocking his head towards the door she exited through. “She’s just my old b— I mean my boss.”

Castiel could feel his eyes narrowing at the corrected response. He didn’t attempt to hide his suspicion, hoping that Dean would backtrack and try again. After a few seconds of silence, it became apparent that wasn’t going to happen.

He decided to try a different approach. “Would you like to sit down?” he asked Dean, glancing at a chair Hannah sometimes sat in while helping with materials check-out. 

Dean shook his head. “Nah, I’ve been sitting all day.”

Castiel checked the time. “It’s 10 am.”

Dean scoffed. “Time flies when you’ve started your day by catching four fish.”

Nodding broadly, Cas did some basic math in his head. Had it been the full recovery period recommended by the doctor? The soft cast had come off some time ago, but that didn’t mean he was ready to start bench-pressing book carts.

“When do you suspect the doctor will clear you for work again?”

“W-well he hasn’t, not yet.”

“Ah,” Cas exhaled. He was finally getting somewhere. “I can see how running into your boss outside of work might be awkward.”

“Yeah,” Dean murmured on a huff. “Especially on what’s supposed to be my first day ba—” He halted, pouting as his brows creased in thought. “What was  _ she  _ doing here, anyway?”

Cas resisted the urge to glance at the computer screen. He had left the session open and all of her profile information was still up. “I’m afraid I can’t discuss the business of my patrons.”

Dean glared at him.

“Does she know your doctor hasn’t cleared you for work yet?”

“Yeah Cas, it’s fine,” Dean said defensively, arms leaving his side momentarily for a dramatic flap. “I’m fine. It’s… it’s fine.”

It most certainly was not fine.

“Hm,” Castiel hummed, deciding to drop the subject for the time being. Just as he had a social fill line, Dean had one for personal info dump. Cas wasn’t getting any further with him… for now. “Well, since you’re here, I suppose you’ll be the first one to try out our new 3D printer.”

Dean’s eyes widened. “No freaking way. That’s awesome.”

A small smile crept across his cheek. “It came in first thing this morning. It’s in the back. Let’s go take a peek.”

The worry that once weighed down Dean’s countenance was gone. Castiel wished he could keep him that way forever, that he could shield this precious man from life’s complications. It was unfair that books got dust jackets and humans had to absorb every bump and stain.

He would get to the bottom of this eventually. But for now, they had a 3D printer to unbox.

—

Dean had spent an ungodly amount of time creating a design and inputting dimensions. He spent even longer in the backroom with the printer, forbidding Castiel to interrupt “her maiden voyage” and promising to make a show of the machine’s first-ever print job. Dean swore it would be glorious.

The library was mostly empty, as everyone was away for dinner. Castiel took advantage of the lull to think about what space he would assign as the Printer Lab. By the circulation desk would be a prominent spot, but somewhat in the way. He could always convert one of the study rooms.

Dean swung the backroom door open, chest puffed up and eyes sparkling with pride. Whatever it was he made, he kept the suspense a little longer by hiding it behind his back. Castiel took a seat in the circulation desk chair and unconsciously held his breath.

In one swift motion, Dean swung his arm out from behind his back and smacked the 3D print job onto the circulation desk. He stepped away, allowing them both to bask in the splendor of his creation. Castiel’s stomach dropped.

It was a penis.

He looked at Dean. Then at the penis. Then back at Dean.

Dean grinned.

“Dean,” Castiel gritted in chastisement.  _ “No.” _

There it proudly stood, in the middle of the circulation desk as a testament to the wit and ingenuity of the people of St. Augustine. He had entrusted Dean with the task of representing this quaint town, and of course, it had to be a penis. Castiel wasn’t sure why he should have expected anything else.

It wasn’t even a good penis. It was only vaguely phallic, with no testicles at the end. As with anything else the printer might create in its future, Dean’s object was a sickly gray, making it unappealing, even for someone who traditionally appreciated penises.

Castiel spieled concisely but quietly. “This is a blatant violation of item number three under 3D printer rules and regulations: the public may not use the library’s 3D printer to create material that is obscene or otherwise inappropriate for the library environment.”

As he rattled off the rulebook, Dean stepped closer to where Cas sat. He stopped right in between his knees, dangerously close to pressing their groins together in a way that would  _ definitely  _ be against library rules. Dean smiled in that way that threatened to weaken Cas’ resolve, although he would never allow his face to show it.

“I’m not the public,” Dean pointed out.

“But we are  _ in  _ public.”

Dean took a wide scan of the room. “I don’t see anybody.” He shrugged and gave a coy pout.

_ Absolutely not here.  _ “Although the creation of your  _ object  _ transpired behind closed doors, its public display will not be permitted.”

“Are public displays of affection permitted?”

Castiel’s brow shot up. “You know the answer to that.”

Dean swallowed, his cheeks turning pink. He looked so good like this, trying to hover and act like he ran the place, but reminded of reality with one voice inflection or a very particular way Castiel looked at him. It was like the day Castiel got shoved against a bookcase, not intimidated in the slightest. Not when those were  _ his  _ books digging into his back. Not when that was  _ his  _ library wall supporting him.

But as much control as Castiel had of the current situation, he still wanted to pull Dean in and kiss him until they were both breathless. It burned in his core, ribboning through his veins and making him hot in his collared shirt. It would be an awfully fun desire to give into… later.

For now, Castiel simply quirked up a half smile and glanced down the length of Dean’s body with hungry eyes.

“Um,” Dean coughed, taking a step back. Even in just that small added space between them, the air cooled, letting Cas know that _ it wasn’t just him _ that was growing warm in his pants. “Th-thanks for letting me screw around with the 3D printer. I guess I should get going… so I can… uh…”

“Get more rest,” Castiel finished for him while at the same time finding a lead back into their previous discussion. “You’ll be one more sleep closer to a full recovery. Which will be when, again?”

“At least like, two more weeks I think,” Dean blew through quickly. “I already called Dagon before I got here. Guess those sick days didn’t cut it.” He laughed at the end, but it seemed _ off. _

“And everything is alright?” Cas prodded carefully. “What do you mean, your sick days didn’t cut it?”

“Nothing, s’nothing,” Dean insisted, his nervous smile growing less and less convincing. “I’m fine, Cas. Really.”

Castiel’s brows furrowed as his head tilted to the side.  _ No, no… Something is wrong… _

“I’m gonna go now,” Dean said, glancing at the door before offering Cas one last assuring nod. “Keep the 3D printer penis. As a gift. From me.” He shuffled out of Castiel’s space gracelessly before picking up the pace to make his great escape.

Castiel stared at the door closing behind Dean, realizing too late he didn’t even say goodbye. He sighed, looking blankly into space as he pondered Dean’s strange behavior. Whatever happy-go-lucky front he was putting on, it was painfully transparent. At least, it was to Cas. He put Dean’s 3D penis behind the desk, where patrons couldn’t see it.

Several minutes passed, if the constant tick-tock of the clock was any indicator when Castiel heard the distinctive sound of a motorcycle engine. He had only heard that particular engine one other time, and yet it lived in his memory to that day, ever since that year’s comic con. He looked to the front door expectedly, and the exact person he knew — and hoped — would walk in, did.

“Bee,” he said, rising to his feet. “It’s good to see you again.”

She stood on the other side of the circulation desk, helmet against her hip. “Castiel,” she said with a tone that seeped with urgency. “We need to talk.”

Cas nodded because he didn’t have to ask for the nature of her visit. She had barely spoken and they were already past that. He pressed his lips together, because if he was being honest, he was worried about Dean.

“He’s in trouble,” Bee stated, her own concern apparent on her otherwise peaceful features. “Dean is going to get fired.”

Castiel sucked in a silent breath. “Fired? When?”

Bee shrugged. “Maybe tomorrow, maybe next week. I don’t know. But he’s boned and he’s not telling anybody.”

“Does he know you’re telling me?”

“Of course not,” she deadpanned. “But I need your help.”

With a relieved exhale, Castiel let out some tension from his shoulders. At last, he had something to go on. At last, he could help the man that meant so much to him. “What do you need?”

Bee shook her head, the corner of her mouth turning up. “You’re not going to like it.”

Cas blinked. How could he  _ not  _ like the idea of helping Dean?

“You’ll be all ‘nyah, confidential patron information, blah blah blah’.”

“Alright,” he said, holding up a hand. “What is it?”

Bee leaned on the counter and tapped on the computer monitor. “I want everything you’ve got on Dean’s boss.”

Eyes slowly dragging across the screen, Castiel read it all. Dagon’s last name, address, phone number. What she owed, the current titles she was borrowing, and what she had on hold. It was information he was not at liberty to share. Information that he, as the head librarian, protected.

It was indisputably against the rules, and Castiel was going to break them with as much force as Moses throwing the tablets of stone down the mountainside.

He looked back at Bee, already planning out how to relay her all of this information without leaving much of a paper trail. “What are you going to do?”

Bee’s eyes darted to the side, not turning her head but making sure no one else was in earshot. “I’m getting her fired, too.”

Castiel’s eyes widened. Oh.  _ Oh.  _ This had gone beyond preventing Dean from getting fired. This was so much more than that. This was revenge.

He pulled out the printer tray, removing a single sheet of copy paper and clicking open a pen. “What I am about to share with you is privileged information.”

“You don’t even know all the sweet deets yet.”

“I know you’re doing it for Dean,” he said, pausing from copying down Dagon’s address. “Whatever it is, I will help you.”

Bee looked kind of surprised at how willing he was to jump on board. Maybe she should’ve been, but maybe not. Did Dean have a point about a stick being up Castiel’s ass? In some ways, perhaps. But no one but someone who worked within those four walls could truly know the nuances, the peculiarities of the job. People always did have the wrong ideas about librarians. No one knew what wild beast lay beneath the respectable title and glasses.

Dean didn’t know the lengths Castiel would go to for him.

“Why didn’t he just tell me?” He found himself asking it to himself more than anything, but he looked up to see Bee with an expression of solidarity.

“He doesn’t want you to think he’s a loser.”

Castiel’s head cocked to the side at the absurdity of the notion. “What?”

“He’s too scared of losing you. He’d rather just get kicked out on the street.”

He expected to see a hint that Bee was at least  _ partly  _ joking. When the realization hit him that she most certainly was not, he looked back down at the paper that had an address written in block lettering, even more firm in his resolve. This had just gotten  _ very  _ personal.

In a roundabout way, Castiel had just been informed that Dean Winchester — Tough Mister Manly Grunt — would rather have love than an actual home. In Dean’s mind, he had to weigh between risking Cas breaking up with him and being able to talk openly about a very traumatic life event he was braving all alone.

Of course, it was as sad as it was ground-breaking. Of course, Dean didn’t need to choose between those two things — Castiel would do everything in his power to make sure Dean would have somewhere to go. Not only that, but the thought of breaking up with someone for something that wasn’t their fault was just silly, although Cas imagined it must be hard for Dean to think of it objectively while in the thick of it.

Castiel folded up the paper and handed it to Bee. “Is there anything else I can do to help? What about keeping a roof over his head?”

Bee smirked. “Don’t worry about that. I figured something out.”

Nodding, Castiel looked around at his workstation, mind running a mile a minute trying to come up with more ideas on how he might be of help. Dean cared about him.  _ A lot.  _ Enough to suffer in silence. Now if only Cas could convince him that he cared for Dean enough that he didn’t need to go through this alone.

“What’s going to happen to Dagon?”

“Oh,” Bee dragged out, looking off in thought. “I’m gonna climb her walls and leave her a little something extra special in some of her household ingredients.”

Castiel felt a smile coming on. “Something…  _ edible?” _

Bee nodded.

Oh, this was going to be fantastic. “And then?”

“And then our local drug screening center will receive an email from her about scheduling a ‘random’ drug test.”

The wording was interesting… very interesting. Being the roommate of a skilled hacker, his attention was drawn specifically to the part about the center receiving an email from her, instead of Dagon sending an email to them. Someone would have to gain unauthorized access to the email.

Someone he and Bee both knew well.

This plan was elaborate and as far outside of the law as Castiel had ever gone. If all the pieces moved in unison, it would work. Castiel couldn’t help but smirk at its complexity and the thrill he felt imagining Dean avenged and his ex-boss brought to justice, street-style.

Bee swung her helmet back to set it just snug enough on her head for it not to fall off, but not all the way on. “You’ve got the drift.”

“How are you going to pay rent for both of you?”

She pushed the helmet the rest of the way on. “Don’t worry about me. I’ve got it figured out.”

It was a lot to take in, but he was miles ahead of where he’d be if he had kept trying to figure it out on his own. Dean might have eventually told him, but not with the added bonus of what basically boiled down to _ he loves you, you idiot.  _ That was the best-feeling ton of bricks that had ever fallen on him.

Castiel looked at Dagon’s profile info on his computer screen, then at the pen he had used to leak client information. He released a brazen exhale. “I guess I’m a criminal.”

“That makes four of us.”

Bee stuffed the folded paper into her pocket. She offered one last consoling look before turning to leave. Maybe the look was to comfort him after breaking the library policy. Or perhaps it was a soft welcome into the growing circle of “bad kids” in their squad. Could’ve been something else, though.

It could have been the look of “if you ever had any doubt about how Dean feels about you, you can put those to rest now; you know the truth so you can do what you want with that.” It was a suspicion Cas had been harboring for a while now, but he might’ve second-guessed himself a hundred times before getting smacked in the face with it. 

There was no denying it now. He was falling fast and hard for Dean. And by some miracle, he had been given a hint that Dean might be feeling the same exact way.


	27. The One Where Cas Gives Dean Page Work

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean receives the phone call he has been dreading for weeks, but is it enough to convince him to finally confide in Castiel?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen to [Undercover Angel ](https://youtu.be/G-xRMw0NyW0)

Cas was pissed at him. Dean was sure of it.

It wasn’t even the fact that Cas looked at him differently over the past week and a half, although that was unnerving in itself. His eyes  _ did something _ whenever they looked at each other, like Cas was looking  _ through  _ him, not just at him. It made Dean feel naked and not in a fun way.

Although it might have been a hint that Dean had fallen out of favor with the head librarian, that wasn’t the tell-tale sign. 

It wasn’t even the fact that earlier that week, Cas had called it quits in the middle of foreplay. At first, Dean took it pretty hard, telling himself Cas didn’t like him anymore as he turned on his side to cry himself to sleep. The following morning, after Cas explained that nothing was wrong and he just changed his mind, Dean felt a little better. He even scolded himself a little for trying to make it about himself.

But no, none of these things screamed “Castiel is ticked off and you’re responsible.” His current duty as a library volunteer did.

Returning expired holds was page work. At least, Dean had leveled-up to more “glamorous” tasks to warrant thinking so. He usually saw newbies assigned to it and turned his nose up, pitying them as he returned to his uppity book sale station. Dating the head librarian had its perks, or so he had been led to believe.

Now here he was, tossing out tech-verified hold receipts and returning the titles to their rightful shelves. He grumbled every time he passed Castiel, arms too full of books to flip him off. The librarian wouldn’t say a word as he stared Dean down, all prim and proper in his collared shirt and perfectly tamed hair. He just…  _ looked  _ at him. It was driving Dean bonkers.

As if the tension between him and Cas wasn’t enough, his phone vibrated in his back pocket with the fateful call Dean knew deep in his gut was coming from Dagon. He exhaled sharply as he set the stack of books on a corner study table and retreated into the room Cas had interviewed him in months ago.

Their conversation was short. You haven’t been showing up; you’re relieved of your duties; blah blah blah. To be honest, the whole thing went by in a blur, like the room was spinning and he was trying to stay focused on a single point. Dean likely wouldn’t remember many details; only that by the time he left the room, he was unemployed.

Without knowing how he made his way back to the study table, he took up the stack of books again. He chewed on his lip to give his mouth something to do besides give into the lump rising in his throat. Worries of his future swam through his head and he forced them all to the side as he read the call number of his next book to put away.

He reread the entire number five times before paying attention enough to figure out which direction he needed to go. “323.1196 J,” he murmured under his breath. He turned the book over.  _ Bending Towards Justice. Jones, Doug.  _ He headed towards non-fiction.

His next inhale shook.  _ Nope, nope…  _ not in the middle of a goddamn library. This was fine. He was  _ fine. _

“1196 J, 1196 J,” he muttered, eyes darting all over a bookshelf but unable to focus. 

On this day, in this building, minutes ago, Dean Winchester got fired. The reasoning behind it was a load of shit and his boss knew it, yet she did it anyway. Temporary disability was something he hadn’t given much thought to, as workers comp seemed much more likely to be needed in that industry. The loophole took advantage of his naivety and cost him a livelihood.

Now what was he supposed to do? His last sick days and vacation paycheck was coming that Friday. The money would run out as fast as it always did, but with no hope of replenishment. The only job application he had heard back from was the fire department and their hiring process took upwards of six months. He didn’t have that kind of time.

Dean honed in on a single book sitting in a flawlessly arranged line. “973.9 C,” he read aloud, then exhaled, bumping his head on the metal shelf. He wasn’t even in the right friggin’ stack. Cursing under his breath, he turned his head, freezing when he spotted Cas looking directly at him from the end of the bookshelf.

Dean took a step towards him, arms too full of books to notice the rolling step stool in his path. Before he could register what was going on, he collided into the obstacle and lost his footing. With a grunt and the sound of a dozen books plummeting to the floor, he collapsed. 

His cheek grated briefly against the short carpet, burning his skin. Opening his eyes, he saw only the metal shelf across from him and one of the books he dropped.  _ Wild Horse Country: the history, myth, and future of the mustang.  _ Dean blinked, finding his vision blurred with tears.

“Dean,” the deep, gentle voice above him graveled.

He sniffed but didn’t move.

Castiel fixed a couple of books so they weren’t lying spine up with pages folding against the floor. The predictable, protective gesture comforted Dean. If Cas didn’t make sure his books were alright would he even be a librarian?

Next Dean felt a hand on his shoulder. He gave into the gentle press, turning on his back and instinctively checking up on his healing arm. When he looked up he saw Castiel, biting the inside of his lip with a face like his lollygagging amongst the books was just an excuse to spend a little more time finding the words to say.

His face said that and more. It carried the emotion of someone who was thinking far more than they were about to say. It was a dam holding back millions of tons of water, only letting out the trickle needed to feed the channel beyond. Dean was glad of it, even though his curiosity begged to hear it all, because he wasn’t sure if he could take millions of tons of  _ whatever that was _ written in his face.

“Dean, what happened?” Cas stated more than asked, almost like he knew.

“Nothin’I’mfine,” Dean blurted in one hurried word, dropping his gaze.

Castiel let out a nearly silent sigh. “No, you are not.” Cupping a hand around Dean’s elbow, Cas encouraged him into a sitting position. “Was that your boss on the phone?”

Dean stiffened, avoiding eye contact at all costs. Lips pressed shut, he swallowed down any and all responses. Cas would be able to detect a blatant lie and Dean was too scared to admit the truth. He stared unblinking into the bookshelf, willing his eyes to dry from nearly all-out crying.

He expected Cas to leave in a huff, or at least try once more to force the words out of him. What he did not expect was for Cas to calmly take his phone out and begin texting someone, keeping the screen just out of Dean’s line of sight.

“Found someone new already huh?” It was supposed to be a joke, but Dean’s voice cracked halfway through. His subsequent forced smile was an attempt to cover the fear in his voice.

After finishing whatever the message was, Cas blinked, looking square into Dean’s eyes. “That’s not funny,” he said, rearranging himself onto the floor so he wasn’t crouching uncomfortably. “I was texting your roommate.”

Dean struggled to keep up the carefree facade, but it was so,  _ so  _ hard, especially with how Cas looked right through him. Still Dean denied it, telling himself there was no way Cas knew he had been fired because Dean hadn’t told him. He wasn’t  _ that  _ easy to read, was he?

“I don’t want her to come pick me up,” he said, finally growing the balls to look Cas in the eye again. 

“That is not the nature of our conversation.”

Dean’s brow creased. “Then what—”

“Don’t worry about it,” Cas softly spoke the assurance given to him not long before, reaching out to hold Dean’s hand. It was a tender gesture, yet blew Dean’s mind a little, as it was the most intimate touch Cas had given him in the public areas of the library.

The shock of it all halted Dean’s sniffling and overthinking. After a few seconds, he let out a long, even breath. He closed his eyes and curled his fingers around Cas’ hand. His tailbone ached against the short carpet and the metal shelves dug into his back but he couldn’t think of any other place he’d rather be. 

“Sorry about the mess.” For the first time since his fall, Dean took a good look around him. The books wouldn’t take long to pick up and put away, but in the moment, they had been the straw that broke the camel’s back. “I was uh, setting up a librarian trap.”

A smile broke across Cas’ face as he blew a humored puff of air through his nose. “It appears that your ‘trap’ was effective.”

Dean placed an index finger against his lips and put on his best Elmer Fudd voice. “Be veewy quiet.”

With the mood drastically lightened, Castiel removed his hand from Dean’s and began picking up the books. Even in the wake of the joke, there was something behind his smile that let Dean know Cas was still thinking about  _ something.  _ Dean wished he would stop. So much quiet thinking after such a dangerously vulnerable conversation made him nervous, so it was time to change the subject.

“Maybe you can help me,” he began, tone teetering somewhere between fun and serious. “That’s what librarians do, right?”

“That is the general consensus, yes,” Cas replied with as much snark as the first time they met.

Dean picked up a book, holding it against his chest as he leaned forward to reach another. “Don’t tell my brother, but I read a kickass gay romance not long ago and I’d like to find another one to fill the void.”

Castiel looked like he wanted to smile, but he didn’t, instead looking down at the book he was about to grab. “I have several I might recommend. Are you looking for anything specific? Fantasy? Historical fiction?”

“Space cowboys,” Dean said, barely holding himself back from belting out lyrics to a Steve Miller song _.  _ “Would that technically be sci-fi or western?”

“Sci-fi,” Cas responded without missing a beat.

The further into this rabbit hole he could coax Cas, the less likely it was for them to return to the subject of Dean tripping and having an emotional breakdown. “I kinda have a thing for bad boys, so if you could throw that in the mix, that’d be great.”

Cas and Dean grabbed the same damn book, each giving it a tug before their eyes met. Cas looked different this time, like he was remembering something recent that lit a fire behind his eyes. But nothing could prepare Dean for what came out of Castiel’s mouth.

“I’m a bad boy.”

Dean sputtered in laughter, his hold on the book loosening enough for Cas to pull it away. The perplexed look Cas gave him was enough to send Dean into hysterics.  _ Head librarian Castiel? A bad boy?  _ Dean choked, belly aching from laughing so hard.

“Oo boy, that’s a good one,” Dean collected himself to say in between snickers. “Tell me another one.”

Castiel blinked into an unreadable expression, then cleared his throat as he tucked the last book under his arm. “Once again, I have been grossly misjudged.”

There was another tear in Dean’s eye, though of a different sort this time. “Man, that’s rich. What’s your crime, wearing white after Labor Day?”

“I believe it’s almost nine o’clock,” Cas said, standing up. “Please take your final selections to the circulation desk.”

“You haven’t given me your recommendation yet.”

“My recommendation to satiate your simultaneous love for sci-fi and western romance cannot be found in a library, due to its adult content.”

Dean scrambled to his feet, eyes widening in glee. “Hot damn, Castiel reads cliterature? You really  _ are  _ a bad boy. C’mon,” he prodded, unable to wipe the amused grin from his face. “What’s the title? Not asking for a friend.”

Cas looked around them to ensure the absence of eavesdroppers, then lowered his voice. “Jimmy’s Erotic Adventure in Time and Space Continuum.”

Dean snorted a laugh.

Lifting a scolding finger, Cas straightened his back. “It sounds preposterous, I will admit, but do not judge a book by its title.”

“That is — that is  _ exactly  _ what I’m doing, Cas,” Dean chuckled. “Seriously, what the hell?”

“It’s about a time traveler who is accidentally sent back to the days of the Wild West, where he is captured by cowboys. He meets and falls in love with the youngest of them.”

Dean ran his hands over his face with a sigh. This whole damn situation was hilarious, from Cas claiming the Bad Boy title to his admission of consuming erotic literature. It was a nice interlude between his boss’ horrible news and the inevitable self-loathing that would consume him later that night.

“Cas, you’re something else.” He mumbled it on the backend of a smile, but it was sincere nonetheless. “I —” Dean stopped abruptly, unsure where the sentence was going and unprepared for whatever confession might have flown out of his mouth. He swallowed it all down and found Cas watching him speak, listening for whatever else he was about to say.

Dean couldn’t say what he actually wanted to.

He stiffened his mouth into a tight-lipped smile and fidgeted with the books in his arms. “I’m just gonna go, um — I can put these away, it’ll take like five seconds —”

“It’s alright,” Cas protested, extending a hand towards Dean’s pile. “I’ll take care of it.”

“Y-you’re probably faster anyways,” Dean said, stepping closer to slide the books into Cas’ arms. Their hands brushed, and he’d be damned if it didn’t send lightning up his nerves, like the very first time they touched. “See ya around, Cas.”

Those unfairly blue eyes were almost impossible to look away from, but Dean was too terrified of the things he might confess if he stared into them too long. “Goodnight Dean,” Cas said as he took the books and Dean reluctantly dragged his fingers away from Cas’.

Dean let out a stale breath as he turned to leave. His heart beat hard against his chest as he picked up the pace, each step quickening as he approached the exit. He was nearly out the door when something on the bulletin board stopped him in his tracks. Facing the board, he squinted. It was something about fishing.

Curiosity piqued, he walked up to it as Hannah began cutting the lights. He read the flyer from top to bottom, taking one of the tear-away tabs at the end. Stuff like this wasn’t even supposed to be on the bulletin board anyway, as Cas reserved it for nonprofits and would toss it as soon as he realized someone had defiled his precious board.

The flyer described an upcoming fishing tournament. It sounded fun and it wasn’t like Dean had anywhere else to go, so what the hell? It would be good exercise for his arm, too. 

He pedaled back to the apartment with the flyer’s torn off tab tucked in his back pocket. He set it on his nightstand as soon as he got back, then kicked off his shoes and headed back to the living room to stare at the TV screen until he got tired enough to fall asleep.

Bee came home late for the third time that week. Each time she had been accompanied by a grocery bag with boxes of Ziploc bags. It was a weird new ritual but Bee was an odd little duck to begin with, so Dean didn’t see the need to question her shopping habits.

Even more odd were her recent complaints of back pain. She didn’t vocalize it too often, but Dean could still tell she was hurting by the way she winced and rubbed her lower back sometimes. Her protocol usually involved hiding away on the window ledge to smoke, then coming back inside to enjoy the high and utter lack of physical discomfort through music, snacks, and conversation.

She had started breaking tradition. She didn’t put records on the turntable smelling like weed. Occasionally he heard her pit-a-patting into the kitchen late at night for a glass of water, whereas before she usually slept through the night. Her routine had changed. 

She hadn’t announced the changes outright, but Dean knew her. He knew that something had thrown a wrench into her works. He just couldn’t figure out what it was and she wasn’t giving him any hints. She just… ran differently.

Bee closed the door after her, kicking off muddy work boots and setting down her sack of Ziploc bags. “If I get one more Grand Am with a bad head gasket, I swear to God,” she muttered, “I will set a cylinder head on fire.”

“Sounds like somebody had an exciting day,” Dean said, eyes glued to a baseball game.

“And somebody else had a really crappy day.”

Dean looked up and clenched his jaw. “You’re not wrong.”

Bee flumped onto her bean bag chair. “S’alright, Mr. ‘Dubs, it’s gonna be okay.”

Dean rolled his eyes and sighed, falling deeper into the couch cushions. “I wish everyone would quit telling me not to worry about it.”

“Alright, fine. How’s this? You should worry a lot because if we can’t pay rent, we’re both getting tossed out into the streets. There’s bugs and alligators and oh, it’s hurricane season. Enjoy being homeless. How’s that?”

“Perfect, that — that’s great, Bee.” Dean shook his head in defeat. “At least it’s realistic.”

Bee looked down and smiled. “Nah, it ain’t.”

Dean groaned and began biting a nail. He had just about had enough of her and Cas’ smiley-faced optimistic bullshit. As if this whole predicament wasn’t going to affect them as well. “Whataya mean, ‘it ain’t’? And don’t you friggin’  _ dare  _ tell me not to worry about it. Cause I’m worrying about it.”

Bee stood to her feet — a lot slower than usual and with her face contorted in a particularly pained expression — and picked up her bag of Ziplocs. “I told you I’d figure it out, didn’t I?”

Dean exhaled sharply, hand waving around aimlessly before plopping onto the couch again. “Yeah, you told me that.”

“So I figured it out.”

He had absolutely no idea what that meant, and the lack of context was only marginally less worrisome than the reality of having zero income. Had she talked Charlie into hacking credit cards to fund his half of rent? Was Bee secretly a part of the Russian mafia (thus explaining her talent for scaling brick walls) and signing Dean up to be forever in their debt in exchange for food and shelter?

Each elaborate scenario became more outlandish, but what else was his mind supposed to do with  _ nothing  _ to go on? 

“I’m still gonna worry about it,” Dean mumbled. “Should I start selling foot pics just in case your super-awesome plan doesn’t pan out?”

“It’s already panning out, oh ye of little faith.”

“Looks like somebody forgot to roll that verse into a joint.” He picked at the nail he had bitten. If he didn’t stop he was going to start bleeding. “Speaking of which, isn’t it almost time for you to take your medicine?”

A half smile flashed on her face for a split second before she looked down again, twiddling the grocery bag between her fingers. “Don’t worry about me, Mr. ‘Dubs.”

Dean said nothing as she headed down the hallway, but like hell he wasn’t going to worry. This was the one day he got to worry about everything. His life had fallen apart and Castiel had witnessed him having a breakdown in the middle of the library. He was jobless, without a potential employer in sight, so yes, he would worry. 

He would lay awake tonight and worry about how Cas would react to a freeloader. He refused to bother Sam with the news; the guy had enough on his plate as a pilot student. Eileen couldn’t help him and Charlie already had one male taking up space in her apartment. His ol’ girl was cryptically positive in the midst of her excruciating pain. He would worry alright, because his life was pretty worthy of it at the moment.

Only two things were certain. The first was that he should definitely not be alone after a day like today. The night he realized he was in love with Cas he almost died; getting fired and left to his own devices was a recipe for disaster.

The second thing was the fishing tournament coming up in a few days. He had never fished competitively, but it sounded like just the thing to realign himself, or whatever the chakra crystal-toting kids were calling it these days.

Dean escaped the billowing couch cushions and turned the TV off. After the short walk down the hall, he gave Bee’s door a quick knock. “Hey,” he called, “we should go do something. Like… I dunno. Get banned from another pastry shop.”

After the distinctive sound of her closet shutting, Bee opened the door. “I don’t know of any pastry shops that are open this late.”

“Alright well, whatever,” Dean said with a shrug. He didn’t care where they went. He just needed to do something with someone else, before he did something stupid alone. It was becoming his signature move. “You pick, then.”

Bee looked to the side in thought, then quirked a smile. “Do I get to pick the mode of transportation, too?”

Dean grumbled out a sigh, but if he was being honest, walking could get old really fast depending on where Bee was dragging him and for how long. He gave one last contrary shake of his head, but yielded with a begrudging, “Fine.”


	28. The One With the Hurricane

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean distracts himself from all the badness with a midnight Walmart run, but his final stop is a special request.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen to [Save Me](https://youtu.be/Iw3izcZd9zU)

Their late-night adventure ended up being Walmart, where Bee pushed him around in the cart for three hours. They spent most of the time lollygagging, but once Dean mentioned the fishing tournament she took the most direct route to the sporting goods section. After Dean spent a suspicious amount of time ogling the coolest fish finder in the store, Bee threw it in the cart, ignoring his protests of “rent is coming up next week and I just got fired” and “now hold on a minute, you can’t just buy random crap for a deadbeat roomie!”

They rolled into the adjacent Auto Care section, where Bee picked out a saddlebag and fussed over the store being out of her favorite motor oil. He would get her the damn stuff once he got back on his feet, he decided. If he placed at the tournament he’d get some money.

The parking lot was well-lit but quiet in the middle of the night. Bee gave the cart one last push before standing on the rack near the back wheels, letting gravity take them down the slight incline to their parking spot.

Dean glanced at his phone, grimacing at the time but unable to shake the desire to finish the night off right by seeing Cas. A bluster of September wind blew past him, an early sign of yet another Florida hurricane. They were a dime a dozen, so he didn’t take this one any more seriously than another, but he and his ride still needed to get a move on if they didn’t want to get caught in an onslaught of rain and hail.

“I have a drop-off request,” he said after shoving the cart into the cart return.

Bee tossed him her spare helmet, lifting a knowing brow. “You’ll get rained in.”

“Even better.”

Dean bit the bullet and pressed CALL by Castiel’s name. Objectively speaking, it was far too late for inviting himself over, much less placing calls. But he didn’t want to just show up unannounced. Pounding on Cas’ door at 3 am would likely frighten the guy more than a late-night phone call; waking him up via cell phone was the lesser of the two evils.

The line picked up. “Dean?”

Castiel’s voice sounded much more awake than Dean was expecting. He blinked, taken aback by the lack of gravely sleepiness and scrambled for a greeting that didn’t apologize for waking Cas up. “H-hey Cas, you sound… awake.”

Dean cringed at his own words, but they didn’t seem to phase Cas. “I suppose it is a surprise that I’m not asleep. I have been packing my books into plastic tubs. What have you been up to this late, Dean?”

“Oh, I’m just…” Dean stopped, because he wasn’t about to fess up to his night owl habits being the product of sudden joblessness trauma. “Can’t sleep. Mind if I swing by?”

“Not at all,” came the reply. “As long as you don’t mind my lack of hospitality. I’m a bit preoccupied.”

Dean had no fucks to give. He just couldn’t be by himself while his chances of putting himself at risk were high. “I’m on my way.”

* * *

By the time he was inside Cas’ apartment, St. Augustine was on the cusp of a bitch of a storm. The wind had picked up, blowing palm tree leaves and debris across the apartment parking lot. Infrequent but heavy raindrops pelted onto him between taking off Bee’s helmet and retreating into the breezeway.

“Holy crap,” Dean rasped as he crossed the threshold. Strewn across the living room floor were several half-filled plastic tubs and their airtight lids. The bookshelves lining the wall were empty, their contents split between the tubs and stacked all over the floor. “You goin’ somewhere?”

“One can never be too careful when in the path of a category five,” Cas responded, sitting down cross-legged between a tub and a stack of books. The combination of his ruffled hair and sleeveless tank with sweat shorts looked as comfy as it was cute. “If worst comes to worst, the plastic tubs will offer some protection.”

A smile quirked up Dean’s cheek. “Y’know, most people board up their windows when a Cat 5 rolls into town.” 

Cas silently pulled up an empty tub. Dean yielded to the silent invitation and planted himself on the floor, keeping his head low as to not give away his amused grin. It was pointless pointing out the obvious anyway; Cas wasn’t “most people” and Dean wouldn’t have him any other way.

They made quick work of it, stacking the tubs after all the books were up. A sudden wall of rain battered against the building and the wind howled. The storm was officially here.

“Went from zero to sixty pretty quick,” Dean observed as he peeked through the blinds. It was too dark to see much of anything, but it was already bad and the eye was still miles away. He slipped onto the couch beside Cas, who was curled up under a throw blanket with a cup of chamomile tea.

Cas didn’t say anything, instead sipping his tea and staring off into space. It wasn’t odd to be a man of few words at four thirty in the morning, so Dean thought little of it. If anything, Cas was probably just fretting over his books.

Dean snuggled against Cas’ shoulder and filled the silence. “I signed up for a fishing tournament.”

Cas gave a pleasant hum into his tea. “That sounds right up your alley.”

A nearby tree thrashed against the apartment in the gale force wind. “Some poor bastard stuck the flyer on your precious bulletin board. I’m sure you tore it down as soon as you saw it.”

Swallowing thickly, Cas set his cup on the ottoman and nodded keenly. “Yes, yes. Of course.”

Dean didn’t have time to analyze the strained response before a rumble of thunder signaled the worst of the hurricane quickly approaching. The lights flickered and Cas reached beside the couch to pull up a hand-cranked radio. 

“If it wasn’t for this goddamn hurricane, I would’ve suggested we head to the beach and watch the sunrise,” Dean said.

“I will accept a raincheck,” Cas responded before their apartment became enveloped in darkness. He turned on the radio, adjusting the station to something weather-centric. 

Dean was about to make a circumstantial joke about a raincheck while it was raining, when an unwelcome phrase sounded across the radio waves: _tornado warning._ The meteorologist described funnels spotted across Florida’s eastern coast, naming cities and counties in which they had been seen.

His breath stopped in his throat when the weatherman recited the name “St. Augustine” in his long list. Illuminated only by the radio’s small orange display, he and Cas shared a look. The meteorologist continued, advising residents to take shelter in the lowermost level of the building and stay away from windows. 

In true Floridian fashion, Dean hopped up and pulled open the window blinds. It was still too early for sunrise, although it wouldn’t be long now, but the dirt plastered on the glass was a testament to the havoc the hurricane was wreaking. Lightning and another roll of thunder sounded.

Tornadoes. _Why did it have to be tornadoes?_ The things sucked. Hurricanes, they could manage. They followed a rough projection and more or less lost momentum once they hit land. They were wet and messy and knocked over some stuff. Occasionally Florida got a really awful one and the Weather Channel would do special programs on them once a year for the next thirty years. Big whoop.

But tornadoes? God himself couldn’t predict where they’d blow. They could rip apart entire neighborhoods, the grocery store down the street, or a few hundred trees, depending on what stood in their path. Once seen, they could not be predicted; only retreated from as fast as one could.

A faint light came from Charlie’s room, followed by the sound of her door closing. In she walked with a flashlight, snug as a bug in a hoodie and cotton shorts. “Castiel, why are you still awa— Oh, hey Dean,” she greeted as her flashlight shone in his face. “You bitches gonna sit by the window and get killed by flying debris or are we all piling into the tub?”

Dean squinted against the bright light. “Is it even that bad? We could always —”

The sharp _thwap_ of a tree limb against the living room window startled all three and awoke Dean to just how strong the winds had grown. Charlie fled for the bathroom and Cas stood up with the throw blanket still bunched under his arms. Before heading for cover, Dean pried apart the window blinds one last time, and his stomach dropped at the spiraling gray funnel headed right towards them.

“Fan-freaking-tastic,” he rasped under his breath, releasing the blinds and making a beeline for the tub. This was just _great._ All they needed was for Cas’ home to get blown away at the same time as Dean’s next rent payment was coming up. Now _none of them_ were going to have a place to live.

Charlie gasped when something very big and _very heavy_ rammed against the apartment building. Into the tub they all went, Cas last of all and draping the throw blanket over them. The wind blew so hard it whistled, and that was when the gravity of the situation hit Dean.

The tornado was _on the other side of that wall_ and in _seconds_ Cas was going to need a place to stay while the leasing office kicked into disaster recovery mode. Where was he supposed to go, exactly? Dean could offer him his bed for exactly two days before his own rent was due. Then what? Camp out in Cas’ rusty old Pontiac Sunfire? How fucking cozy.

“Cas,” Dean said into the blackness, both apartment tenants inches away. “I… I need to tell you something.”

His heart hammered in his chest for reasons totally unrelated to the tornado beginning to rip into the walls. He had sworn he wasn’t going to tell. He wanted so badly to never _have_ to tell. Dean had bullshitted his way through everything else in life; why not this? Why did everything have to come to a head right here, right now?

“Yo,” Charlie piped up, “if this is some schmaltzy Mr. Darcy speech, um, I’m still right here.”

“No, that’s not —” The sound of glass shattering and wood splitting interrupted him. “Cas I really, _really_ need to tell you something.”

Cas reached for his hand in the humid, cramped blackness. Before he could respond, something big and flat slowly leaned into their space from above. The three ducked deeper into the tub, making themselves as flat as possible as the apartment collapsed around them.

Ah, hell. He’d tell him later, if they lived through this.

* * *

Dean missed the tug of a fishing line when a big one gave a nibble. He missed air conditioning, manspreading on his couch, and his tailbone _not_ hurting from curling up in a fetal position in a porcelain bathtub. Most of all he missed that motherfucker in the sky that illuminated the world and would certainly do a metric fuckton of good against the claustrophobia he was experiencing.

“This sucks,” he said into the dark, squished between Cas, Charlie, and the debris that prevented them from removing the throw blanket. The tornado was long gone, along with the rest of the hurricane, leaving them under a heap of tree limbs and building materials.

“I need to fart,” Charlie sighed.

“Don’t you friggin’ dare.”

“I really need to. Like, it’s bad.”

“Charlie Bradbury, if you fart with all of us under this blanket, I swear to God —”

“Shh,” Castiel hissed. “I hear someone.”

Sure enough, the sounds of civilization came alive in the distance. An ambulance here, a child calling for their mother there — all relatively meaningless to them, until one in particular cut through, hollering Dean’s name.

“Sam,” Dean whispered, then screamed. “Sam! Sammy! Hey, we’re over here!”

His voice was stifled, although he couldn’t tell how badly. He couldn’t say how many layers had stacked on top of them, leaving them buried in the storm’s wake and helpless to be heard unless their rescuers were just a few feet away.

“Let’s yell together,” Charlie suggested. “One, two, three…”

“Sam!” all three of them yelled at the top of their lungs.

Dean sniffed the air. “Charlie, _oh my God._ Really?”

“The screaming pushed it out of me!”

Waving his hands to no avail, Dean gagged. “Jesus _Christ._ My eyes are burning.”

“Dean!” Sam’s voice rang out again, a little louder this time.

All hope of his brother finding them was lost… until the rumble of a motorcycle engine eased into earshot. Dean exhaled in relief. 

_It was her._

“C’mon Sam, I know where their bathroom is,” Bee said, taking wide strides onto the wreckage. “Er, ‘was’.”

They were going to be found. They weren’t going to die here, covered in rubble and suffocated by Charlie’s flatulence. Halle-freakin-lujah, Bee wound up in the bedroom across from him that Sunday night two months ago, so she knew the apartment layout. Dean had never been so happy to have a roommate dating his man’s roommate.

One of the boards leaning against them shifted under Bee’s weight. “Marco!”

“Polo!” all three of them shouted back at her.

She took two more steps closer, bending the board more. “Marco,” she said again, her voice much clearer than before.

Charlie, Dean, and Cas yelled “Polo” once more before Bee’s next step landed her square on Dean’s head.

“Ow,” he whined, loud enough for her to hear.

She moved, alleviating the pressure and beginning to move stuff around. As she and Sam removed debris, Dean realized just how heavy it had been on all three of them. Soon he was able to sit up in the tub and immediately began shoving stuff off of him. Charlie and Cas joined him, starting with slabs of siding and ending with the throw blanket.

For the first time in hours, Dean was met with sunshine and fresh air. He squinted and blinked, intent on acclimating to the brightness so he could find his brother. Sure enough, he stood above him, peering through a hole not quite wide enough to crawl through.

“Dean,” Sam exclaimed in relief. “Are you okay?”

“Never better,” he said, a shit-eating grin on his face. “Sorry about the mess. I didn’t know you were coming over.”

Sam rolled his eyes and looked off to the side. “He’s fine,” he sighed before Bee peeped over the edge.

“Dean, where’s my girlfriend?”

“But soft! What light through yonder category five breaks?” Charlie cooed, still unable to see much.

“I should warn you,” Dean said while wagging one cautionary finger into the open air. “This woman down here can pass some serious gas. You’re welcome.”

Sam shoved another shattered siding board aside, making more room for them to crawl out. “It all sounds like a wonderful bonding experience, but I think y’all have spent enough time down there.”

It took some muscle, excessive grunting, and at least two “that’s what she said” jokes relating to them squeezing through the hole, but they made it. After Sam pulled Charlie out, Dean hefted himself out, pleasantly surprised at the sight of Eileen’s extended hand to help him the rest of the way up.

“Damn, the whole gang’s here,” Dean observed once Cas emerged from the rubble. The relieved smiles on everyone’s faces lit up the otherwise dismal scene. The entire apartment building had gone down, along with others in the complex. An ambulance rolled up, sirens blaring, as people began searching the ruins for surviving residents.

Castiel stepped over some of the rubble, careful not to misstep, and moved a few pieces of debris to uncover one of his vacuum-sealed plastic tubs. He smiled contentedly at the stack still standing after everything else had been destroyed.

“There are more of them,” he said to Dean’s inquisitive look, motioning to the side. “Over there, in my bedroom. The ones in there are full of clothes.”

“You’re telling me before I got there, you were not only packing up your books,” Dean recapped, “but also your entire closet?”

Cas’ chest puffed up. “I am not only well-read but highly fashionable.”

Dean shook his head but smiled. At least now Cas would have tubs of clothes and books to build into a fort after Dean’s rent ran past due and they all got evicted.

“What were you about to say?” Cas asked, stepping onto solid ground where Dean stood. “Before Sam came? You said you needed to tell me something.”

Dean panicked, a breath stopping in his throat as he grappled for what to say. _Just friggin’ say it,_ his own brain snapped at him. _There’s no use in hiding it now. His apartment got blown to smithereens, for goodness’ sake. Might as well hit him with the rest of the bad news. Go big or go home._

“Dean?” Cas asked, close enough now that his unfairly blue eyes pierced right into Dean’s very soul. 

He couldn’t do it.

“Uh,” Dean stammered, “I uh, I was just gonna say that… I uh…”

_What’s coming up soon? Banned Book Week? Drag Queen Storytime? Halloween?_

“I just really hope I place at the fishing tournament.”

Dean winced at his own words. He winced so hard his eyes closed for a moment, out of pure embarrassment. When he opened them again, he was met with a tender expression on Cas’ face that he couldn’t quite interpret. Cas tilted his head to the side, face devoid of any confused squint or judgmental brow wrinkle. Then Cas gave him a teeny tiny smile.

“Me too,” Cas concurred.

Dean let out a stale breath and relaxed his shoulders. He looked down at his own feet, kicked a roof shingle, and nodded. _Later._ He would tell him later. Really, he would.

Preferably before the day they all got kicked out onto the street.


	29. The One Where Dean is Absolutely Sure Cas is Breaking Up With Him

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Every horrible thing Dean has been running from builds to a crescendo as he looks at his and Castiel's things mingled together and realizes what is soon to be lost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen to [The Rain Song](https://youtu.be/TRt4hQs3nH0)

Dean’s living room was not equipped for six people, but that didn’t stop them. He, Cas, Charlie, and Eileen sat squished together on the couch, while Sam sat on the beanbag chair and Bee dragged in her free-standing hammock for herself. The TV was on but everyone was too engrossed in China Wok takeout and making conversation to pay it much mind.

Cas’ airtight tubs of books and clothes were already stacked in Dean’s room. Thankfully Charlie took his persistent advice and packed a couple before the storm hit, so her Playstations and favorite outfits were now safe and sound in Bee’s room.

The news showed helicopter-cam coverage of the destroyed apartment buildings. Dean looked away and rejoined the conversation Sam was leading about orange versus lemon chicken. He already knew he could’ve died and watching a bird’s-eye view of the damage only rubbed it in more. He’d rather focus on pleasant things, like tomorrow’s fishing tournament and having Cas as a houseguest, even if it would be short-lived.

Excusing himself from the couch, Dean wandered down the hallway, hoping it would look like he was headed for the bathroom, but slipped into his room instead. Castiel’s plastic tubs were still packed, except one. The lid was off and a few items were missing from the top, which Cas had hung in the closet hoping most of the wrinkles would fall out.

Dean’s heart sank as he looked at all of his own clothes in the closet, realizing that soon he’d have to pack them all up and put them somewhere. He rubbed his face, a lump rising in his throat as he looked around at all the small things that made it home: shoes kicked off and never put away, the charging cord by his nightstand, an unmade bed.

It was all going away soon, so he might as well start packing. Dean pulled a suitcase out from under the bed and began piling clothes into it without regard for style or season. He came across a v-neck the color of Cas’ eyes and that was it; he was done holding it all in. Dean leaned over the suitcase, eyes smashed shut with one hand holding the shirt in a death grip.

He didn’t want to say goodbye.

A delicate knock on the door pulled his attention back to the present. Cas walked in, not missing how glossy Dean’s eyes looked on the brink of tears. The half-stuffed suitcase was a bit of a giveaway, as well.

“Going somewhere?” Cas parroted Dean’s question from before the hurricane.

Dean took a shaky breath. Releasing the v-neck, he turned to face Cas and ran his hands over his eyes. This was it. He couldn’t do this anymore.

“I lost my job,” he said weakly.

Scared out of his mind of what he might see, Dean raised his head to look Cas dead-on. What he saw was not what he expected, to say the least. Castiel looked perfectly at peace, relieved even, and  _ that didn’t make any sense _ because this was the part where Dean got dumped for being a freeloader.

“S-so I’m packing,” Dean continued. “Because once rent is overdue it’s  _ hasta la vista,  _ baby.” He let out a long sigh but it didn’t make him feel any better. “M’sorry, Cas.”

Without a word, Cas looked from Dean’s dismayed face to the suitcase he was haphazardly packing. He walked gently over to it and took out the blue v-neck Dean had been holding in a death grip a minute before. With a twitch of the lip that looked awful like the beginning of a smile, Cas ambled over to the closet, where he hung it back up.

Dean’s brow furrowed. “Cas, what are you doing?”

Although he didn’t immediately reply, Cas did give into the smile he had been on the verge of. It was the most beautiful thing Dean had ever seen, and he supposed he should enjoy seeing it while he could.

“You aren’t going anywhere, Dean,” the man said as he took another article of clothing from the suitcase to the closet. “And neither am I.”

“You don’t understand —”

“I understand perfectly,” Cas tenderly interrupted. “You are accustomed to people valuing you for things you can provide for them. Food. Sex. Housing. Also, you equate labor-based pay with your own self-worth and have convinced yourself that dating partners — namely, myself — hold you to this same standard.”

How long had Dean been holding his breath? He huffed silently, eyes wandering as the truth behind Cas’ words fell on him all at once. Shit, he really  _ had  _ thought that. Why did it sound so ridiculous out loud?

“I’m afraid such archaic beliefs are, as you would so eloquently put it,” Cas summarized, “a hundred percent crap.”

Dean was going to say something —  _ really, he was _ — but he was kind of taken aback by Cas pulling a  _ him  _ on  _ him.  _ Even more shocking was the fact that Cas was still standing in the room. The timeline in Dean’s mind had Cas halfway to the library by now, to camp out on the roof or wherever the hell the guy felt like sleeping, as long as it was away from the deadbeat ex-boyfriend.

It was looking suspiciously like there would be no “ex”- _ anything. _

“W-what?” Dean exclaimed, blinking wildly.

Cas took another shirt and shook out the wrinkles. “I’m not leaving you, Dean. Why on earth would I do that in your hour of greatest need?” Then he kissed Dean smack-dab on the lips. “If you’re  _ trying  _ to get rid of me, you’re going to have to try harder than that.”

With a sharp scoff, Dean tried to yank the shirt out of Cas’ hands, but without success. With each added bit of aggravation his voice grew in volume. “You just aren’t giving up on my lame ass, are you?”

“No.”

“Why the hell not?”

“Because I love you, Dean.”

“I love you too, dammit!”

The air grew quiet between them in the wake of their turbulent words. The tension had escalated and then snapped, leaving them silently gazing with suspended breath and a shirt pulled taut between them. 

It was dangerous business allowing himself to get lost in those blue eyes, but Dean was so tired and lost and angry, he couldn’t stop himself. The way Castiel looked at him was overwhelming — brows creased in concern, cheeks flush, hair unruly, and his perfect lips slightly parted as if poised for the conversation taking a different direction. As if he was ready for Dean’s response to be anything else.

_ As if.  _ How could he not be helplessly in love with this man? How much longer was he supposed to keep that to himself? He was done.  _ So fucking done _ with keeping it cooped up inside. 

Dean knew his own facial expression must’ve been a wreck, but there was no way to recover now. Cas had lifted the gate and Dean hadn’t wasted a goddamn second. 

“Cas,” Dean sputtered, the one syllable somehow managing to crack. He dropped the shirt, covering his face with both hands. “Cas, I —”

“Shh,” Cas cut in tenderly. He dropped the rest of the article of clothing to hold him, sounding  _ not even a little bit  _ like the shush Dean got at the library several months ago. “Look at me.”

With the brunt of the tempest past, Dean let his hands fall at his sides and braved another look into Cas’ eyes. They were devoid of reprimand or disgust. All he found was an unmistakable, unconditional love that he wasn’t sure he deserved but would be an absolute bonehead to let go of.

Cas softly cupped his hands around Dean’s face. “It’s going to be okay.”

Dean heaved out a relieved exhale, releasing so much tension pent-up in his shoulders that he slumped into Cas’ arms. “But… but my job…”

“You’ll find another.” Cas’ rumbling voice by his ear was comforting.

“But rent is due,” he continued. “I’m gonna lose my home. We all are. You, me, Charlie, Bee.”

Cas shook his head. “No, you aren’t.”

All this confidence in money magically appearing wasn’t helping. “But… how?”

Briefly looking in the direction of the living room, Cas shrugged. “I have been reliably informed that someone else on the lease has taken care of the total amount for this month.”

That made no sense because Bee was the other renter and she hadn’t taken up any side hustles. All she ever did was show up every now and then with Ziploc bags, and other times several hours after quitting time at the auto shop. That didn’t mean anything, did it? That was just her being her quirky self, right?

_ Right? _

“Oh my God,” Dean breathed, sliding past Cas to barge out the door. He ran down the hallway and into Bee’s room, flicked on the light switch, and yanked open her closet door.

His whole body stiffened.

Every last mature marijuana plant in her makeshift grow room had been stripped down to stalks and a few scant stray leaves. The whole closet was mostly just twigs and dirt, from the looks of it. Two or three baby plants were left growing at their own rate, unplucked. Every bud and sugar leaf otherwise was  _ gone.  _ Adios. Goodnight, moon. 

Dean clutched onto the closet door frame, eyes darting to every plant — or what was left of them — in her closet, when a voice behind him confirmed what he had just put together.

“It’s a lucrative business when you’re in a pinch.”

Turning to face her, Dean stood with a slack jaw and unblinking eyes. She looked weary and in so much pain. She had been hurting lately, and now he knew why. He grimaced thinking of every opportunity to self-medicate she had passed to dry, cure, and bag another ounce.

“You’ve been selling without keeping any for yourself?”

“Kinda ironic, innit?” she chuckled. “Servin’ up a bake sale while your own back is killin’ ya.” Rummaging through her pocket, she pulled out a wad of cash. “I guess the punchline is ruined now, but here’s your half of rent.”

Dean leaned his head against the closet door frame and sighed. “The work you do on cars — You must be in so much pain — Bee, take something.”

“Nothing else works, man. Besides, if I had been stingy I wouldn't have been able to afford that fish finder.”

_ Oh, wonderful.  _ Now Dean felt even  _ worse  _ about what Bee had been doing for him behind his back. First rent, now a stupid-ass fishing toy he didn’t even really need? No big deal, all it cost was _ his roommate’s entire health.  _ If her back issues flared up much more, then  _ she  _ wouldn’t be able to work, and the vicious unemployment cycle would continue…

Dean sank to the floor, utterly overwhelmed. Cas was staying, all because he saw Dean for more than he saw himself.  _ He  _ was staying, all because of her. Dean was  _ not  _ going to be kicked out on the street tomorrow. _ He still had a home.  _

In two or three weeks, every person currently in his apartment unit would be living a normal life. Sam would still be enrolled in pilot school. Eileen would still be his neighbor. Charlie would still come over to hog the couch.  _ Cas still wanted him.  _

And there wasn’t a single thing Dean could do to repay either of these people.

“I — I can’t,” he stammered, a slouched heap on the floor. “I just — I thought —”

He was trying to say too many things at the same time and not a single sentence sounded right. None of them could convey what a double relief tonight had brought; how nothing he had feared for the past few weeks was actually happening. It was the alleviation one’s spirit felt after a bomb ticking down the last ten seconds was dismantled and everyone walked away safe.

The next thing he felt was her plop onto the floor next to him. Her hand on his shoulder was grounding and he leaned into it. 

“Y’alright there, roomie?” she asked.

“I’m — It’s all gonna be okay,” he acknowledged out loud. Giving it words helped solidify it and a smile crept across his face.

Bee simply nodded, mercifully refraining from the many  _ I told you so  _ comments that were perfectly justified.

Dean exhaled sharply, supported between Bee and the closet door frame and able to just relax for a moment. Pretty soon he’d be back in the living room with his man, brother, neighbor, and that redheaded firecracker who had invited himself right into their little family. Maybe he’d tell them about the close calls with work and housing, or maybe not. Either way, the relationships between him and the people sitting in that unit got a little stronger tonight.

No matter what, there were people around him that would be home to him. Home didn’t have to be a physical place, after all.

Dean thought about the wad of cash in Bee’s pocket. It was one more month of rent. He wasn’t sure what they’d do after that, but he was going to work his ass off to find a way. She had done the same for him.

That left half a year remaining under contract. “Ready for six more months?” he asked, a little more clear-headed and a lot more ready to take on the rest of what this leasing year had in store.

“Hell yeah,” she replied. “What can we get everybody to celebrate? Cookies? Werther’s Originals?”

Dean snorted a laugh. “I wonder if the cotton candy cart out by the beach got blown over.”

“The subway shop.” Bee’s eyes widened. “The pastry shop!”

“Wait,  _ that  _ pastry shop?” He didn’t know which other one she’d be referencing, but it didn’t hurt to clarify. “The one we can never show our faces in again?”

The default look on Bee’s face was one of cool calm. This was not one of those times. Right now she emitted boundless chaotic energy, barely held back by her own willpower and waiting for the signal to  _ go  _ from the metaphorical tap of the gas pedal.

“Screw it, let’s go,” Dean conceded, giving his legs a tap before scrambling up. “When we  _ do  _ get the itch go get off our asses, we go all-out.”

“Double or nothing,” Bee commented as she pulled herself up.

Dean gave a thoughtful pout, then nodded. “Double or nothing.”

“Dean!” Sam’s voice called from the other side of the apartment. “Come look at this.”

Rushing through the hallway, Dean turned the corner in the living room in just enough time to see an enlarged thumbnail of his old boss on the local news channel. Beside her picture, the headline read: BUSINESS OWNER BUSTED IN HER OWN DRUG TEST.

  
Dean’s forehead creased in bewilderment. “Dagon…?” 

The newscaster read from her script, explaining the catchy headline. “Local authorities report a local plumbing manager’s email, concerned that her employees might be working under the influence of drugs. After completing lab testing, it was determined that the manager requesting the drug test had low levels of THC in her system.”

Dagon.  _ That was Dagon on the news.  _ Holy sh—

“Suspect in question denies these allegations, claiming someone ‘must have hacked into her email’ to schedule the test. Upper management has taken steps to remove her from her position, and assure current and potential clients of their commitment to providing drug-free services…”

Dean stopped listening, turning to see if anyone else in the room was as blown away as he was. The only ones with a suspicious lack of shock on their faces were Cas, Charlie, and Bee, who shared  _ a look  _ before turning their attention back to the TV.

_ Oh hell no.  _ They had been up to something crazy.

“Guys,” Dean finally said as the newscaster went on to the next story. “What the hell?”

No one immediately replied, but Dean could guess whatever the answer was, the majority of it would probably stay between the three of them. That was for their own protection, and he could respect that, but he still needed to know what the fuck was going on.

“Justice,” Cas said simply. His eyes were forward, unmoving from the TV, lest a look at either Charlie or Bee give away more than he meant to.

Dean’s mouth poised for a very dramatic  _ What? _

“Pastry time,” Bee cut in before he could get it out. She swung the door open and looked over her shoulder. “You coming or not?”

Maybe it wasn’t his place to know. Nah, screw that, he’d get it out of Cas somehow, someway. It didn’t have to be tonight, tomorrow, or even next week. But he’d find out just what crazy antics his man had been up to in the name of justice. Whatever it was, it involved three things: Information Cas didn’t feel comfortable admitting to in a room full of people; computer-hacking skills; and a very sneaky method of infusing someone with weed.

Maybe Cas really was a bad boy.


	30. The One During Banned Book Week

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Before the fishing tournament, we take a moment to see what interesting things Cas has been up to!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Buckle up kids, this one hops around a little. The first couple of scenes are Cas' POV so we can see some behind-the-scenes magic that's been happening right under Dean's nose. Then we'll go back to Dean's POV. Everything will be normal once we get to that point. Enjoy the last chapter!
> 
> Listen to [Roll With the Changes](https://youtu.be/nEidbkibsiE)

**_Castiel's POV: Between chapters 26 and 27… (after Bee’s visit, before Dean dropped books and had a breakdown)_ **

Castiel minimized his email tab and let out a sharp exhale. Less than an hour ago, Bee blew in and out, the energy of which could be likened more to a stampede of horses than one person. Their short but jam-packed conversation left him in the dust and nearly trampled with information overload.

He couldn’t stop thinking about how much emphasis Dean had given to job searching and the truth behind it. Things were so much worse than he was ever going to let Cas know. Maybe that shouldn’t have bothered him as much as it did, but here he was, getting up from the back room desk without being able to concentrate enough to field a single email.

Didn’t Dean know by now that Castiel would want to help him? That he was worth so much more to Cas than things income could buy? Didn’t Dean know Cas thought higher of him than that?

The very disturbing negative answer to these questions nagged at him like an off-center dust sleeve.

When there was a problem, he fixed it. He was hard-wired for it, from early on in his higher education. It was what made him so good at his job. And yet here he was with all the facts finally laid out, with no clue where to go from here.

There _had_ to be something he could do to help Dean find another job. There just _had to._

That was why Dean started volunteering at the library in the first place, wasn’t it?

Castiel slipped out of the room and into the work space behind the circulation desk, where Hannah was talking with a patron in a mesh-backed baseball cap and sleeveless button-down. The only way he could be more obviously a fisherman was if he walked in carrying a fishing pole. Ah, Florida.

“I’m sorry,” he heard Hannah gently saying, “but the bulletin board is reserved for non-profit organizations only.”

Intrigued, Cas peeked at the flyer in the man’s hand. It was objectively a beautiful flyer — full color, eye-catching font, and tear-away tabs at the bottom for anyone interested — advertising an upcoming fishing tournament.

“Hm,” Castiel hummed. The smaller print promised anyone who placed first through third prize money, and an impressive amount at that. _Competitive fishing must be a lucrative business._

Narrowing his eyes as a memory flashed at the forefront of his mind, Castiel took the man’s flyer in hand. Dean liked to fish.

_“I wanna do something else — a new job,” he recalled Dean telling him during that interview nearly six months ago. “I just have no idea where to start.”_

Castiel looked up at the puzzled man, eyes wide in an epiphany. _Dean liked to fish._

_“Thought the library would be a good place to get ideas.”_

Ever so calmly, Castiel pulled a thumbtack out of the drawer and placed that and the flyer back into the man’s hand. “The bulletin board is between the restrooms, above the water fountains.”

He could feel Hannah’s perplexed gaze, although he did not indulge her with an explanation. “Oh,” she puffed softly, then dropped the subject. 

Castiel retreated to the back room desk once more, head clearer by leaps and bounds. _Just until he sees it,_ he decided as he opened his email tab. His hyper-fixation on library regulations was already starting to tingle as his brain caught up with the fact that he had broken _another_ rule.

But Dean himself came across as the devil-may-care type, and Castiel couldn’t help but notice Dean’s appreciation for them in entertainment. Han Solo, Jim Stark, Rhett Butler. Maybe that was Dean’s type. And maybe Cas had a little bit of that in him, after all.

* * *

**_Castiel's POV: During Dean’s dropping of the books and mental breakdown…_ **

Castiel might have been one to get engrossed in his work, but he wasn’t stupid. He had seen Dean steal away into a glass-walled room to take a call and walk back out with a thousand-year stare. He had seen Dean attempt to go right back to the stacks, only to come dangerously close to reshelving a book on the wrong shelf. Now Dean had tripped on a step stool and was on the floor about to cry.

But sure, everything was _just fine._

He turned Dean onto his back, noticing a rug burn on his cheek but nothing more serious. Castiel bit back so many words, all giving away the fact that he knew exactly why Dean was acting the way he was. It was written all over Dean’s face.

Dagon had just fired him over the phone.

Acknowledging Dean’s plight wasn’t the only thing on the tip of Castiel’s tongue. Dean _loved_ him and Castiel loved him back. Dean had _nothing_ to worry about. It didn’t matter that life was falling apart, because Castiel would be there for him. But Dean couldn’t see it yet.

He would make certain Dean saw it someday. But right now, he had to play along.

“Dean, what happened?”

His reply strung together in one hurried word. “Nothin’I’mfine.”

Resilient as he was in the face of Dean’s angst, Castiel let out a sigh and cupped his elbow, getting him to sit up. “No, you are not.” He debated whether to prod him further on the subject. Dean had recently hid from and talked about Dagon, so it wasn’t like Castiel was pulling the subject out of thin air. 

He chanced it. “Was that your boss on the phone?”

The way Dean’s whole body stilled was all the response Castiel needed. Not only that he had struck a nerve, but that Dean wasn’t going to discuss it any further. Anger welled in him as his suspicion was confirmed — one of this man’s worst fears had come to pass. Dean never deserved anything so unfair.

But Castiel inhaled deeply and took his phone out of his pocket. **_It happened_** _,_ he texted to Bee as the signal to carry out her plan of vengeance. Now all he could do was entrust her with justice and keep being the moral support Dean needed. 

**_Show time_ ** _,_ she texted back.

—

**_A few minutes later…_ **

Dean had left a pile in Castiel’s arms as he turned to leave, but this librarian had carried enough books to hold them for quite a while before feeling their weight. He stood partially hidden by a bookshelf, watching Dean approach the front of the building. Castiel’s fingers tapped on the stack of books and he held his breath, suspense building with every step Dean took towards the doors.

Dean halted, then looked at the bulletin board.

Smiling, Castiel let out a bated breath and disappeared between two shelves. Reshelving aside, his work for the night was done. He had leaked confidential patron information, broken his own rule against public displays of affection by holding Dean’s hand, and allowed a flyer on his bulletin board that wasn’t non-profit.

He really was a bad boy.

* * *

**_Okay now we’re caught up… Day of the fishing tournament, Dean's POV_ **

Thanks to the jumpy teen from last time that somehow recognized them, the pastry shop had been a bust. That was fine; Dean was in more of a pie mood, anyway. He and Bee couldn’t decide between Publix’s coconut custard and key lime, so they brought home both.

The pie party that ensued at the apartment set the mood for the fishing tournament ahead. Dean had prepared his finest rods and reels, charged his new fishfinder, and chosen a second angler for the two-person allowance. All he could do now was stuff his face with pie, get a good night’s sleep, and be at the marina for sign-in at first light.

“Are you sure you wouldn’t rather take along someone who, I don’t know, at least owns his own fishing gear?” Sam asked as they unloaded his car in the parking lot.

Although it was a fair question, Dean couldn’t think of a single person he’d rather share the rented jon boat and motor with. Sam didn’t obsess over it like he did but he was intuitive and a team player, both highly valuable qualities in an effort like this. They would get a lot further together than Dean could by himself, which was the whole point in having him.

“Don’t sell yourself short, Sam,” Dean said with a tackle box in one hand and his fish finder in another. “Whatever the cash-out, we’re splitting. Start thinking about the romantic getaway you’re taking Eileen on.”

Sam chose not to give into his brother’s teasing with an eyeroll. “What about you? Any special plans for your cut?”

A knot grew in Dean’s stomach as Sam obliviously pulled the fishing poles and cooler out of the trunk. For a split second he considered bringing up something cliche like going to Vegas, but no. Sam had gone all this time without knowing the truth and the more Dean thought about it, the more messed up it felt.

“Just gettin’ by until I can find work,” he admitted, staring at his tackle box for a moment before lifting his eyes.

Sam’s brows creased in confusion. “Until you can find work?” His facial features relaxed as realization dawned on him. “You lost your job?”

Dean bit the inside of his lip. “Couple’a weeks ago, yeah.”

Sam exhaled sharply. “Uh, okay, wow.” He closed the trunk, eerily quiet as he locked his car and began walking side-by-side with Dean towards registration. “In that case, let’s win this joker.”

It wasn’t the first thing Dean expected to fly out of Sam’s mouth, but he would take it. Shrugging his lips, he nodded as they fell into a queue line of anglers, ready to register and get out on the water.

“Kinda pissed you didn’t tell me you were in trouble,” Sam finally let slip. “But it’s a pretty ‘Dean’ thing to do.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Sam huffed a laugh. “We can discuss your coping mechanisms later. For now, let’s catch some bass.”

* * *

The weigh-in line opened at 3 pm, promptly eight hours after Dean’s first cast. He and Sam had done well — really, _really_ well — but was it enough to place in the tournament? Some of the other anglers in his midst looked like pros with their name brand shirts and fancy motors. He just had the time of his life but he’d be lying if he claimed it wasn’t intimidating as hell being surrounded by fancier equipment and cocky dudes that were in it to win it.

Thankfully, a live band entertained everyone between weigh-in and the awards ceremony. It took Dean’s mind off of every second guess he made about some of the catches he had culled. He and Sam had invited everyone to join in the festivities, which would provide more distraction from the anxiety festering in Dean’s gut.

Eileen and Cas brought lawn chairs. In true anti-sun redhead fashion, Charlie brought an enormous beach umbrella and a wide-brimmed hat. Bee laid out on her tie-dye blanket as everyone helped themselves to the snacks in her bag.

Dean took a wide look at the hundreds of people spanning across the grassy area. Only a small percentage of them had been out on the water with him and Sam, but that didn’t stop him from feeling suddenly very small. Seated in a lawn chair between two others, one occupied by Sam and the other by Cas, he leaned toward his brother.

“There’s no way we placed in this tournament,” he said quietly.

Sam swallowed the peanut butter cracker he had been munching on. “Sure there is. Did you see everyone else’s catches?”

“Yes,” Dean replied somewhat aggressively. “That’s why we don’t have a chance. Did you see that one guy’s biggest bass? That mofo could swallow my entire arm.”

“That was _one_ bass,” Sam replied. “The rest of his were average at best. We might not have caught a monster, but all of ours are above average.” He snapped open a water bottle from their cooler. “You’re freaking out. Stop it.”

Dean gave a contrary grunt but didn’t press the matter further. 

“Hey,” Charlie piped up, squinting towards the band. “Is that… Garth?”

Everyone else zeroed in on the guitarist with a mic lowered to his instrument as the two vocalists belted out something twangy, while their banjoist picked at lightning speed. It was a simple acoustic bluegrass sound, but it fit the tone of a Florida fishing tournament. Sure enough, Garth was the man plucking away at the guitar, overpowered by the banjo but fitting right in nonetheless.

“How ‘bout that,” Dean said softly to no one in particular. The guy had found a new band — one that didn’t suck. Good for him.

He turned to his other side to see Cas in glasses with a book held at a comfortable distance. Those black-rimmed glasses brought back some good memories; ones that Dean had to fight hard not to let affect him physically.

“Whatcha got there, Cas?”

The man in the lawn chair beside him turned the book so the cover was visible. _The Catcher In the Rye._ “It’s banned book week,” Cas expounded with a certain level of intensity that was telling of how hot and bothered a week like this one made librarians. “This one has been removed from numerous school libraries since 1960.”

“You wait until banned book week to get your freak on?” Dean challenged.

“No,” Cas defended, getting back into the book. “I’m a bad boy, remember?”

Dean smiled. “I heard _To Kill a Mockingbird_ has been causing a scene over the past forty years because it made people ‘uncomfortable’.”

Castiel turned a page and raised a brow. “That is the entire point of the book. Wait,” he snapped, sitting up straight and laying his book in his lap. “You haven’t read it yet?”

Dean held up his palms. “Look, I uh—”

“It’s a classic.”

Banned book week really did put Castiel in a mood. Dean hadn’t seen him riled up in a while, and although it was mild compared to the story time fiasco, it was the most impassioned Dean had seen him about reading. That was saying something, considering his entire career centered around books.

“Alright, fine,” Dean gave in, but mumbled something about ‘required friggin’ reading’ under his breath.

Apparently, it wasn’t quiet enough. Cas turned a steely look at him, but just below the surface, his mind was putting together a rather unconventional reading plan that Dean couldn’t refuse. The complexity of his stare made Dean swallow hard. Cas was so hot when he got all righteous about paper and ink between covers.

Cas finally resolved the suspense, leaning in to whisper in Dean’s ear. “I’ll incorporate it into our… private studies.”

  
Dean felt a wave of heat course through him. He could see it now: Castiel plowing into him, not letting up as long as Dean kept reading aloud. If the pleasure was too much as his eyes rolled back, distracting him from the pages, Cas would abruptly stop, grasping a fistful of Dean’s hair and pushing his nose back into the book. And he might not let Dean cum until they finished a certain number of chapters.

Shifting in the lawn chair and finding himself inappropriately aroused, Dean mentally listed off the unsexiest things he could imagine. The smell of fish, that Cinnamon Toast Crunch fucker who ate all his cinnamony friends, the plague…

The sound of someone else taking over the mic pulled Dean back to the present. After a spell of static feedback, the small-framed guy introduced himself as Gabe and made some announcements. Thank you to all the food trucks, the obligatory listing of the sponsors, blah blah blah. Dean was only half-way listening, so the sudden tap on his shoulder startled him.

“Pardon,” the vaguely-familiar voice behind him said, “but are either of you the participants in the _Long Rifle Bois_ group?”

Sam turned in his seat. “That’s us,” he replied, wincing at the name, “and Dean, why’d you have to call us that? Are you twelve?”

Such a shame younger siblings couldn’t appreciate taking opportunity in nomenclature. “C’mon Sam, surely even your sheltered ass knows about the Winchester rifles?” Dean gave his brother a _duh_ look before looking behind him to see none other than —

“Marv, hey!”

The man’s eyes brightened, which sent a wave of relief through Dean as he realized one of his pitches-his-tent-in-mystery guys actually recognized him. “Dean,” Marv replied. “Good to see ya!”

“Likewise,” Dean acknowledged. “What brings you out this way?”

“Oh, I’m just a runner,” he replied. “I know Gabe, so he put me in charge of retrieving all the folks who placed. Let’s get you two up there.”

Dean shot a quick look at Cas, whose mouth was beginning to give into a smile, although he kept it mostly controlled. His eyes were bright and optimistic, looking into Dean’s as if transferring all their hope and good will into him. Dean didn’t know what it meant, but he smiled back before getting up to follow Marv to the front.

Somewhere along the way he began processing the words _all the folks who placed._ This dude coming to get them meant they placed. Which meant… nah. Any prize money sounded too good to be true.

Marv motioned by the podium and instructed, “Please wait right over here.” They stopped several feet away from the platform, where he had already gathered three groups of anglers. With that, he left them, disappearing behind the sound equipment trailer and in the general direction of the food trucks.

The brothers spotted their squad from Charlie waving at them from under her umbrella. Gabe began the awards ceremony by explaining how anyone placing fifth or below would not be announced from the platform, but that they could collect their non-cash prize after the ceremony. 

All eyes seemed to be on the four fishing teams of two by the platform, and it made Dean uneasy. Attention from purposefully making a scene at the library and attention at an awards ceremony carried two distinctively different vibes. He turned his back to the crowd and let out a sharp exhale.

Gabe announced fourth place. The crowd clapped. The two fishermen, _Pensacola Bay,_ fist-pumped and stepped onto the stage, where Gabe waited with their trophy and a white envelope with their $1,000 prize.

Dean’s heart beat a little faster. They weren’t in fourth place. Which meant they were either making $2,500 in third, $5,000 in second, or $10,000 in first. He held a breath as Gabe read third place. _The Grouper Troopers._ Dean broke out in a cold sweat.

“Pretty sure I’m hallucinating,” he mumbled to Sam as the two men in third place claimed their prize and the crowd cheered.

“Why?” his brother challenged, a stupid grin on his face. “We deserve this, Dean. _You_ deserve this. Whether we get second or first, you worked your ass off for it. The occasional good thing does happen, y’know. Learn to take it… and run with it.”

“Wh-what does that m-”

“In second place,” Gabe said loudly into his mic, trophy and envelope in hand, _“Long Rifle Bois!”_

Dean’s face went white. That was _them._ They had won second place.

They were going to split $5,000.

His hearing came back sometime in the middle of Sam’s screaming and the ambient cheering that consisted mostly of their group shouting at the top of their lungs. He gave into the pull against his arm, finding himself dragged onto the platform. Sam let go of him once they reached the middle. Gabe placed the shiny trophy in Sam’s hand and the envelope in Dean’s.

He looked down at the envelope, gripping it so hard it wrinkled. He looked up, faintly hearing a “congrats” from Gabe above the crowd. The seconds between hearing their ridiculous team name and now were a blur, so surreal it was hard to believe he wasn’t in a dream.

Dean raised his eyes, instantly focusing on Cas. He had the proudest smile Dean had ever seen while being shaken by a very enthusiastic Charlie. Dean’s lip curled up as he drank in the unforgettable look Cas was giving him. Did this moment really have to end? Did he _really_ have to get off the stage?

Unfortunately, the answer was yes. He and Sam walked off the platform and back to their area while Gabe announced first place. Dean didn’t even hear the team’s name. He couldn’t look away from the man waiting for him; he couldn’t stop thinking about _that look_ on Cas’ face and how inviting those lips looked in his moment of victory.

Before Dean could get a word in, Cas pulled him in and kissed him. All the sounds around him softened as his only reality became Cas’ arms around him and their lips pressed together. Another section of his brain told him other people in his company wanted to offer their congratulations, but they could wait.

They broke the kiss reluctantly. “I’m so proud of you, Dean,” Cas said, loosening his grip enough for Dean to start taking in other things around them, like the hundreds of people gathered and the smell of food trucks.

Dean’s lip quivered as he looked down at the envelope in his hand, which had become squashed at some point during their embrace. He tore the flap open and glanced inside at the $5,000 check. It was real. All of this was real. He and Sam had won real cash money dollars. _Holy shit._

“I —” he started, but hadn’t actually planned out a sentence. “I just — Um —”

Cas turned up an inquiring brow. “What are you and Sam going to do with it?”

Dean shook his head and swallowed. “Sammy’s probably gonna put his half towards tuition, but me? I mean, it’ll take care of rent for a couple more months.”

Nodding deliberately, Cas looked from the envelope back up to Dean. “I suppose it will be an adequate paycheck, for the time being.”

The word _paycheck_ seemed like an odd term for it, as it insinuated that the source came from an actual _job,_ but Dean nodded back anyway. 

Then he froze.

Plenty of people made their living off of fishing tournaments. Granted, not everyone placed high enough to actually make money every time, but if he played his cards right and got into the right competitions, it just might work. He had rods, reels, a fish finder, and high intuition. He could make it work.

Dean’s eyes widened and his jaw slackened. He just stared at Cas, unblinking. _He could do this._ He had spent all this time looking for something besides plumbing, when the answer had been right under his nose this whole time. He had worried himself sick over it, all the while throwing a line in and taking pictures of what he caught.

_Well ain’t that a son of a bitch._

Realization draping a shell-shocked gloss over his eyes, Dean sucked in a breath. “Cas, I just realized, I could —”

“Whoop!” Sam screeched in his ear before squeezing Dean hard enough to lift him off the ground. Damn giant. “You did it, dude.”

“We did it,” he corrected once his feet returned to solid ground. Realizing that hug had been mostly one-sided, he yanked Sam in by one shoulder, demanding a re-do. “C’mere, bitch.”

“Jerk,” Sam responded on queue, hugging his brother again. 

The rest of their company followed suit, minus the affectionate name-calling. He thanked them one by one, but “thank you” didn’t seem adequate. Not when they had all been there for him through all the bullshit and now they were all here, watching him succeed. Not when they were witnessing him changing his own life.

His higher brain, should he choose to listen to it, told him that his friends and loved ones seeing him doing something he loves would be compensation enough. They just wanted him to be happy. It had been a bumpy ride, but he was there. He really was going to be okay.

The crowd dispersed, some gathering near the live band while others headed for the food trucks, and Dean squeezed Cas’ hand as they headed towards what smelled the best. Yeah, he was way past okay. He was going to be _awesome._

* * *

In the days following, the library was abuzz with activity, and more than one patron had mistaken Dean for an actual employee and asked for assistance. The knee-jerk reaction was to pass the responsibility to someone who was getting paid to help out, but a quick look out from between the stacks showed every assistant, technician, and the man in charge himself were occupied with some poor soul in dire need of their expertise.

Dean bit the bullet. Come to find out, the youngin’ just needed help figuring out how to use an encyclopedia — _kids these days_ — so he gave her some pointers, made sure she found what she was looking for, and left her to it. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted Castiel’s unmistakable dark hair and cuffed jeans. Dean followed, taking a shortcut through Bios to meet him near the rows of computers.

Cas looked flustered. It might have been the number of people he was forced to interact with over a short period, but Dean knew him better than that. This was about one of his precious books. He could see it in Cas’ eyes.

“What is it?” he asked with a certain degree of expectancy in his voice.

Castiel let out a breath. “Someone put a book on the shelf upside down.”

He was visibly agitated but _damn_ was he beautiful. As if his necktie wasn’t enough, on which was printed a vertical stack of problematic books with spines reading titles such as _Of Mice and Men_ and _The Grapes of Wrath._ On top of that, the asshole had the nerve to wear a blue cardigan that brought out his oceanic blue eyes. They were tempestuous, needing calming like the sea needed the moon to pull it back to low tide.

And Dean couldn’t help the smile that broke across his face, because it was about damn time Cas found the book Dean deliberately reshelved upside down, just to get under his skin.

  
“What?” Cas questioned, clearly in no state of mind for shenanigans.

Dean doubled over, chuckling. “Nothin’.”

As Dean’s smile widened, so did Castiel’s eyes. “Did _you_ do that?”

_Dammit._ “I was just playin’ with ya, Cas.”

Cas sucked in a stream of air, ready to give a long-winded scolding, but Dean laid a hand on his arm. It seemed to do the trick, as Cas let the exhale out of his nose and released the pent-up tension from his shoulders. Dean didn’t let go when an unfazed patron walked past them, and Cas didn’t draw back.

“And another thing,” Cas rumbled quietly once he restored himself to the neutral composure Dean had grown to be inexplicably attracted to. “You touched my books.”

Dean furrowed his brows. “Your books?”

“Yes, at home.”

Two things about this struck Dean a certain way. First, Cas had an eye so keenly set on the way he had arranged the books in his plastic tubs, that he could tell when they had been displaced. Dean had taken care to put them all back the way he found them, but that didn’t fool their rightful owner. That was a whole other level of protectiveness. It was kind of hot.

The second thing was Cas calling Dean’s apartment home. It made Dean feel warm inside, like the first sip of coffee on a cool day. Cas had said it so casually, like _duh, obviously it’s my home, too._ Dean liked that.

“Uh, yeah,” Dean stumbled, his heart rate quickening a little on account of what he was about to admit. He hoped Cas wouldn’t mind. “I was just, uh… So the thing is…”

Cas cocked his head to the side. Dean gulped. He _really_ hoped Cas was cool with what he had done. _It’s the thought that counts,_ he told himself.

“Pull out your phone,” Dean instructed as authoritatively as his shaking voice would allow.

Perplexed, Cas indulged him, taking his phone out of his pocket and unlocking it.

“Go into your Extras folder,” Dean said, making a sweeping motion with one finger.

“I don’t use anything in that folder,” Cas thought out loud, forehead creasing in bewilderment.

“That’s the point,” Dean said with a hesitant smile. “That’s where I put the app.”

He could have kept questioning, and quite rightly so, but instead Castiel went along with Dean’s surprise. Dean already had thumbprint access to his phone, so it wasn’t hard to sort out how he managed to sneak an app on there and keep it hidden in plain sight.

Cas’ thumb hovered over a new icon. “I have definitely never seen this one before.”

Dean nodded towards the phone, his own anticipation building. “Open it.”

Cas did, narrowing his eyes at what he saw. His eyes darted from the top of the screen to the bottom and he scrolled, silent for the longest few seconds of Dean’s life. _Did he love it? Did he hate it? Oh, God…_

“This is a database of cataloged books,” Castiel said at last. Then his face relaxed into a look of full comprehension. “Wait, are these —” He looked up at Dean.

“They’re yours,” he confirmed. “All organized, all in one place.”

It was the first time Dean had ever heard Cas actually struggle to put together sentences. “Y-you,” he began, then paused to scroll some more. “You cataloged my personal home library?”

“Okay, I didn’t do it all by myself,” Dean confessed. “I asked Hannah for help. I don’t actually know how to catalog crap yet. It was confusing as hell and I think a few brain cells died in the process, but… yeah.” He made a _ta-da_ motion with one hand. “So, um… you like or —”

Dean didn’t get to finish, or even form another thought, because Cas had smashed their mouths together. _Cas was kissing him._ In the middle of the library.

_Hold on one diddly darn second, that was against the rules!_

And Dean didn’t give a single fuck. After the initial shock, he melted into it, humming barely audibly against Cas’ mouth and probably being viewed as _highly unprofessional_ and _inappropriate for the library_ and whatever other behavioral regulations Cas had hammered into him. Cas’ lips and perpetual five o’clock shadow felt so good, he would gladly give into whatever loophole Cas had found in the context of his boyfriend surprising him with a cataloged list of his own books.

The exception to the rule was damn well earned, too. That shit was time-consuming and mind-boggling. Plus, Castiel was the exact type of person who would appreciate an effort like this, since something as introspective as cataloging one’s own books fit his quirky personality. Dean knew Cas would look at the finished product and understand the time and effort it took to accomplish. 

Apparently, Dean had underestimated just how hot and bothered it would make the librarian currently sucking his face. Not that he was complaining.

Castiel pulled away hastily. He looked this way and that, likely on the lookout for coworkers who would tease him later about breaking _another_ one of his own rules. “I got carried away,” he said under his breath.

“Mm hm,” Dean agreed without a hint of regret.

“I shouldn’t have done that.”

Dean squinted and gave his head a tilt. “Debatable.”

Cas stood a little taller and tucked his tie back into his cardigan. “You know what I always say when you try to —”

“I know what you always say, you ass,” Dean cut in. “But if this is what happens when I lose sleep over control numbers, bring it on.”

An oblivious patron walked past them and seated herself at one of the computers. Castiel looked down at his phone again and smiled. “Thank you, Dean,” he said warmly. “This is extremely generous of you.”

Dean felt heat on his cheeks. “Ah,” he huffed, rubbing the back of his neck. “S’alright, Giles.”

Cas’ head whipped up at the mention of the nickname he despised, but he didn’t address it, instead shifting the conversation in a direction Dean didn’t expect. “Why did you say ‘yet’?”

Dean blinked. “What?”

“When you talked about cataloging,” he explained as they took their time heading towards the front of the building. “You said you didn’t know how to catalogue _yet.”_

“Ah yes,” Dean responded. He paused before continuing, because he hadn’t planned on telling Cas the news this way. It just sort of slipped out and Cas had caught onto it. But hey, he had already proven his hidden geekery once today; once more couldn’t hurt.

Dean was definitely eating some of his words from along the way. From the first night of volunteering, he had fallen right into place amid the stacks. He had denied it time and again, saying the library wasn’t his “thing” and comparing himself to personalities seemingly suited for it like Hannah and Castiel. They seemed more the “type.”

But after all this time Dean realized there wasn’t one specific “type” and the library _most definitely was_ his “thing.” He just wouldn’t go about it in the same way Cas did. He wouldn’t show up in cuffed dark-washed jeans and a collared shirt or freak out over an upside down book. But he could bring his own unique brand of weird to the library. He could be the casual one who pranked the pages and organized after-hours pillow forts.

He not only _could,_ but he wanted to. And thanks to his epiphany at the fishing tournament, it would soon be reality.

“I’m signing up for more tournaments,” he continued once they reached the circulation desk. “Good thing about that is, I can ‘work’ pretty much whenever I want, which will give me plenty of time for other stuff.”

“Other stuff,” Cas echoed, picking up a book someone had left on the counter. He gave the call number on the spine a strange look.

“I’m going to college,” Dean blurted.

Cas looked at him brightly with those stunning blue eyes. 

“And not just a class here and there,” Dean rattled off before he got lost in that man’s gaze. “I’m talkin’ a normal amount of credit hours, like any ol’ poor bastard getting his associate’s would.”

“An associate’s degree, lovely. What are you studying?”

“Uh,” Dean paused, putting his hands in his pockets and letting out one more nervous breath. “Library technology.”

Short and sweet. To the point. Just a two-word answer, but it felt like lifting a load off his shoulders and dumping it before Cas’ feet.

For a moment the only movement Cas made were his eyes widening. Then a smile crept across his face. It was another proud one like Dean saw a few days ago after winning second place.

“A library technician,” Cas said, still smiling. He cradled the book under his arm, just like he always did. “You’re practically an assistant already, by my standards. You’ll be at the top of your class the whole way.”

Dean made a bashful huff. “I dunno about that.”

Cas took the book out from under his arm and slipped it into Dean’s hands. “Time to reshelve.”

Dean read the call number and scoffed. “What the hell? That’s not even a Dewey number.”

“I rest my case,” Cas stated, lifting a smug brow. Taking the book back he flipped through it once, then set it back on the counter, leaving one of the assistants with the super fun task of figuring out which high school the book should have been returned to.

It never ceased to amaze Dean how quickly Cas could shift from cheeky to sincere. It reminded him of his library interview when he basically admitted that he didn’t even know what kind of job he was looking for, but he hoped to find inspiration there. He could have sworn Cas was undressing him with his eyes, but when it came down to serious business, his concern was heartfelt. 

Cas slanted his head thoughtfully. “I’m glad you found what you were looking for, Dean.”

_Understatement of the year,_ Dean thought with a smirk. Cas was going home with him, but he didn’t have hurricane damage to thank for that tonight. Cas and Charlie’s apartment was repaired and cleared by the county as safe, and yet Cas was reluctant to return to his own bed. There was no way Dean was arguing over this one. Hashtag blessed.

He was not above hogging Charlie’s roommate all to himself. He also was not above corny jokes. 

“Is it too soon to make a joke about you being my greatest catch?”

“Careful,” Cas cautioned, “I might lose control again and ravish you on this countertop.”

“I wish you would.”

The banter could have gone on forever, but Dean noticed a lady approaching from adult nonfiction who probably wouldn’t appreciate walking into a conversation about the head librarian fucking someone into the circulation desk. Cas might have some choice words against it as well, although he had already smooched Dean at work, so at this point anything could happen, really.

The lady got Castiel’s attention and asked for help, and just like that he turned the switch, flipping back to serious without a hint on his face that he had been talking inappropriately one second before. Dean didn’t know how he did it. Cas’ trained expression was one of the things that infuriated him upon meeting for the first time. To this day it kept him on his toes.

What he did know was that he was leaving tonight with the love of his life to a home he never expected to grow so attached to. He came for the bass-stoked lake and stayed for the people that made his corner of St. Augustine special. With his newly-found income and a career path, he could keep it all. He could have this.

He could have income that paid bills and bought a metric fuckton of pies. The next day, he and Cas would spend all day at the beach, where Dean would admire how the love of his life looked with the sun darkening his skin and ocean water dripping down his book dragon tattoo. 

He could have hobbies that gave him joy and people in his life that loved him unconditionally. Next month he was helping Charlie put together her “super mega epic” Halloween costume, based on some video game he had never heard of. That wasn’t going to stop him from sewing the crap out of that fabric.

And he could have his home right where he wanted it, with a dream view and close to Sammy’s flying death trap school. He could ride his bike to the library and throw a line in on Sundays. He could spend every day trying to be as good to Bee as she had been to him, beginning with a gigantic can of her favorite motor oil.

He _could_ have it all, and at last, he _did._

He was home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for taking the time to read this story. I'm so glad you made it through! Leave a comment if you'd like, and/or drop me an ask on [Tumblr](https://deans-jiggly-pudding.tumblr.com/ask) to say hi, send good thoughts, or let me know what you thought of the story! It would make me so happy to get to know you better.


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